


Is That an Excuse to Smile?

by Nolfalvrel



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha!Hank, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Also Mom!Amanda, And Connor still has an emotional moodring on his temple, Because that is such a cute trope, Because there isn't enough A/B/O, Case Fic, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Jericho Crew (Detroit: Become Human) as Family, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Omega!Connor, Omegas and Alphas have special traits, Protective Hank Anderson, Protective Upgraded Connor | RK900, Some dark themes, Some dress up (for the case of course), Will update tags as necessary!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-08-27 00:32:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolfalvrel/pseuds/Nolfalvrel
Summary: Hank Anderson is a grizzled, hard boiled Alpha police lieutenant. He doesn't have time for games, the patience for people, or the energy for an Omega.Connor is a young, sheltered Omega. He's never been outside of JERICHO, aspires to be a detective and wants his Alpha to respect his dream.Neither is a huge fan of compromise or half-measures. But they do meet in the middle, and fall in love.They just have to complete the side-quests first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most excruciating chapter you're going to have to read, and I apologize for that in advance. I'm trying to balance the exposition without just dumping it all.
> 
> That being said, welcome to what is somehow one of like five A/B/O fics in the DBH fandom? I'm writing this to fill a need that I still hope someone will fill for me :'(. But because of that, I will try as hard as I can to have all the things I love about Alphas and Omegas, with a couple twists. So get ready for some heats, ruts, and some good ol' pack fluff, with a smidge of brotherly love and some actual detective work.

Everything about the session is a drag. Hank has little patience for these kind of events— social programming at it’s finest. Basically amounts to boredom endurance. A full day training seminar conducted by the stuffiest hack they could find in HR, in the smallest available room, on the hottest damned day, about the least comfortable topic, to the most aggressive collection of cops they could find in Detroit, DPD Central.

It kicks up all the wrong cravings.

Not that there isn’t any merit to the material. He understands the significance of the content. It’s just rarely relevant here and better suited to a corporate, multicaste environment. He’s thirsty. He guzzles his fourth cup of water, hiding by the cooler and avoiding every set of eyes that tries to engage him. Hank isn’t exactly conversational on the best of days, and having stuffed himself into the least constraining suit he could find at fuck-o-clock in the morning, he’s edgier than usual. He sends out a few well placed scowls at some amiable rookies, and even makes a face at that tenured sack O’Connel for good measure.

It does nothing to keep Tina Chen off his back.

“‘Omegan Workplace Accommodation Policy’,” She quotes at him cynically, voice high and off pitch. “Can you believe some Omega bites one in tech and they haul all of us in here for this shit?” Tina snatches the paper cup from his hands and bends to fill it. “I mean, I get Rupert was a nice guy, and may he find peace in death, but does it always have to come back to Alpha hazing? Can’t it ever just be like regular hazing?”

“Rupert?” Hank grunts, making room for Tina to slide beside him. 

“Rupert Peter Kinman. Super sweet, wonderful kid who worked CSI. Used to unlock perp phones, access email records, that kind of thing. Omegan male.” She sips sourly, leaning close but careful not to touch off Hank.

“Never heard of him.”

“Well it’s a pretty long effing list for the people you can’t remember old man. Luckily you weren’t asked to the funeral, but If it makes you feel any better I did say a few words to his family for you. You know, since he was working your case last before…,” She drifts off, lips and fingers twitching. Hank recognizes these as suppressed emotion, maybe frustration; most likely pain. “Damn kid. Just God damn it.”

“You were close?”

“He was nice. Not like those other schticks from JERICHO we always end up employing. He had a personality and it was fucking daisies and roses. Guess that made him a target, allegedly. And well, you know how out of place his sort is here. It didn’t take long.” Her face pinches tight and ugly. Tina is a pretty woman— not overtly beautiful, but she has a refined, easy on the eyes face. Large almond black eyes, straight black hair slicked into a practical bun, nose and chin too wide to be called cute, but suiting the roughness of her personality. 

Her body makes up most of her points, built thick in muscle and paired with a tiny waist. Well, her body and her aforementioned raw character. She takes another sip with a sigh. “Now I guess he’s just plant food.”

“I can’t tell if you’re broken up about him, the warm water, or that you can’t work the beat today,” Hank grunts.

Something hateful colours Tina’s voice as she snips back. “Oh, fuck you Anderson. Fuck you with a cactus and make it dry for good measure.” That’s a tripped nerve if Hank’s ever heard one. She continues, “Why do you always have to be such a God damn ‘A’.”

“Alright, alright! Down Chen, Jesus!” Tina grates her teeth in response, chewing down on the emotion that threatens to come screaming out. A waiting Vesuvius of aggression. 

It’s the inherent nature of all Alpha’s to get angry before they understand what it is that they’re feeling—because pinpointing an emotion in the Alpha mind is the equivalent of the world’s most difficult search for Waldo. The higher on the spectrum, the bigger the crowd to crawl through. If he were any younger, Hank might have risen at Tina’s flashing fangs but instead of hackling his shoulders he lets one nudge into her. “The Hell has your balls?”

“I’m just sick of every freaking Alpha playing right into the Mayor’s hands. A cute Omega drops in and the same set of dicks just have to try to stick themselves somewhere unwanted. And then pre-fucking-dictable, we get a suicide and ’oh no, Alpha brutality’, and ‘cops need pheromone regulation’, and ‘JERICHO needs to put their foot down on A’s’ and _this stupid seminar_. It’s like one person acts out in class and we all have to run laps. Fowler knows these assholes aren’t going to change so why on Earth do they keep sending the ’megs’ here? Why do we keep going through this shit?” 

To be honest, everything Tina is saying pretty much vocalizes all Hank’s quiet, tucked away thoughts. This isn’t their first run with ‘Omegan Accommodation" and sadly if Tina is right about the suicide triggering the refresher, the events leading up to this are shot for shot remakes of prior instances. 

Four over the past three years to be exact. Two of them just six months apart with JERICHO having bulldozed the Captain’s protests. Omegas so sick of trying to force themselves in to a place successfully forcing them out that, come a slum, they find a gun or a pill or sharp piece of glass and exit—stage down. 

Those fracking jokes at JERICHO are pushing their agenda so far down everyone’s throats, people are starting to seize and choke.

And men starved for air get violent. 

It does no one any good to say these kind of things out loud. So instead Hank says, “Beats me Chen. But fuck if the role play we get doesn’t at least make it all worth it, right?” He’s referring of course to their instructors choice to have Hank act out a scene as part of their seminar’s training. He played the role of a respectful Alpha male asking an Omegan coworker out for lunch, then being turned down and subsequently lashing out verbally. The instructor wanted to highlight the ferocity of the Alpha and how intimidating it was for an Omega. 

And sure, Hank might fit the mould of the ideal Alpha— six-foot-four, pushing two-fifty pounds in thick flesh (an extra twenty being a regretful swell of fat starting to rise round his gut), long grey hair and a fierce trimmed beard. Handsome in a worn way and oozing Alpha pheromones. But the partner they had selected to act out the Omega had been anything but and Hank had said at much looking him over. _“No one could ever believe this ugly shit to be an Omega and sure as fuck no one would be asking him out.”_

It’s the right thing to say. Tina snorts obnoxiously, forgetting her irritation. “Oh sweet Christmas, why Anderson? Why do they always pick you?”

Hank shrugs. “‘Cause I fit their stereotype.”

“And Gavin fits what role exact?”

“The trashcan seems pretty apt to me.”

“Ha ha. Is it the short thing that pins him as easygoing? I swear it must be the short thing. People forget how yippy little dogs can be, it’s why they think he’s a good candidate for this stuff. But you’re right he’d never pass for an Omega. I sure hope HR is hourly cause I swear they’re coming back tomorrow for Respectful Workplace: Alpha to Alpha.” Tina pokes both of her index fingers together crudely, grin wide. Hank grimaces, knowing that Tina’s pretty close to being right. These things tend to be the starting domino for a training series. When HR saw just how closely the pit operated to a construction site it was like showing a neglectful parent a failing report card— guilt made the punishments fiercer.

“Speaking of, where is your tumour?” Hank scans the crowd, noticing the HR representative has started asking groups to return to the room, break time over.

“He’s probably still recovering. You know you really shouldn’t rile him up like that.”

“It wasn’t him I was trying to rile up.”

“You shouldn’t rile anyone up like that. Fowler’s running out of buttons for you.” Tina can’t know she’s basically paraphrasing the Captain’s line to Hank that morning. Right after Hank demonstrated being on time was in fact within his willpower. He just scoffs. 

It’s their turn to be confronted by the instructor, a Beta so low end he practically smells Omegan. Typically that should make him more attractive but the man is a thin, pasty, sweaty mess. He wears a brown suit and a yellow shirt with a paisley tie, cut fashionably tight but still determinedly ugly.

He stares at Hank like he put the sun in the sky. “H-hello,” He practically whispers.

“Hi.” Hank offers back. He crosses his arms, despite the restriction of his jacket. His biceps swell into basketballs as he shifts. 

The man awkwardly lowers his gaze to Hank’s feet, unblinking. “Lieutenant Anderson. Of-ficer Chen, w-would you mind returning to the r-r-room, we’re about to s-start.”

Hank lets a pause fester before straightening and slapping the man’s arm. “Sure thing, Kevin. Wouldn’t want to mess up that timetable of yours.” Tina smirks, tossing her cup and following after him. 

They enter the room together. It’s set up reminiscent of a classroom; uncomfortable folding steel chairs; chrome angular tables forming several tiny aisles. The lighting is dim and dingy. The iBoard at the front of the room is a black rectangle several generations old and webs are beginning at the corners. It’s crowded. People are gossiping in little gaggles and it stinks of pheromones. Tina breaks away when Hank moves to sit in the very back row and she slides into a seat in the second, next to some girl with a sleek blonde ponytail. He sits next to no one.

Kevin returns to the front of the room and calls for attention. He is drowned out in the ambience of fifty sweaty blue bloods, high from food and a lacking eagerness to return to their subject matter. Kevin squeaks a bit louder to encourage listening, and gradually he raises his voice enough that Hank hears, “Okay everyone! Great lunch, but we have an agenda we need to get through if we want to get out of here by three.” That shuts them up. Immediately there is a chorus of shushes and shuffling. Nothing gets a group on board like leaving work early and Kevin smiles toothily at expectant faces. He clicks the lights off. “Wonderful! Now I know we’re about to delve into some pretty dry material but it is policy so we’re going to get through this desert together.”

No one laughs, but Kevin continues to wait anyway as if they’re still processing the not-joke. When the awkwardness is near palpable, he whips back to the iBoard and beams them all with a flashing presentation. A logo populates, harsh black letters with the ‘O’ twisted into an uppercase ancient Greek symbol. “Okay then! Now you’re all familiar with our partners at JERICHO. Before the break I mentioned that we would be talking about some current events involving both them and the DPD. Has anyone been watching the news lately who knows what I’m talking about?”

Wisely Kevin lurches into the answer without waiting for participation. “If you’re thinking of O2, you’re right! Last year, 2037 marked a wonderful step in progress for the Omegan-rights organization with the first time attempts to return Omegas large scale into North American society since 2021.” The screen slides into photograph of a beautiful, weathered woman, dark skin pulled tight around the eyes as she glares coldly from a magazine cover. A white dress twists and clings around her body like a ripple of frozen water. Black hair piles high to add to her severity. There’s a wolf whistle and a couple daring cat calls. Kevin tries to gloss over them. “A-ah, yes, I trust you all recognize the lovely Dr. Amanda Stern! Did you know the leader of JERICHO is a strong candidate for the _Nobel Peace Prize_? I do hope it happens, that would be such a boost for the Omegas!” 

The magazine is a Times, red letters arrogantly challenging, _‘Not Equal? Not for long. How Amanda Stern plans to reintegrate Omegas into the nation.’_ Hank has heard people compare themselves to animals; pig; moose; bear. All used on him in particular. But never has he seen someone so fully embody another creature. Dr. Stern is a lioness, and she stares down the camera the same way she had stared down that infamous gun. 

The story went a little something like this— Amanda Stern, Omegan and a woman, had been walking home from a late night at the labs. She had been the only Omega on University campus— the only one allowed into post-secondary in the entire city, state, and probably even east side of the nation. For all her brilliance, she had been entertained by the University of Detroit because they liked the idea of showing her off at conventions. Like a well bred little puppy, gorgeous and rare and nothing more than an owned pet.

A security officer followed her to the bus stop. Alpha and a man. He told her very calmly to follow him to his car. She refused. He asked again, not-so-nicely, this time with a large, violent piece pressed right between her brows. 

And on October 21, 2020, Dr. Stern proved she had teeth. She also proved she had some pretty decent lessons shooting cans off car hoods. She put five rounds in the guard, three right between the crotch. He survived but his family tree was forever stalled. And Dr. Stern made history, using the incident to propel activism for Omegas and create her infamous organization.

Hank liked the backstory. He knew there might be a couple embellishments depending on who told it, but Dr. Stern got enough screen time after that to prove she was vicious enough to have killed that night. If she wasn’t so famous, or gay, she’d have been the kind of lady he'd actually cobble himself together for eighteen years ago. He wouldn’t have even had to fix that much back then. Heck even ten. But if he saw her now, he’d be dodging her eyes like he did everyone else, or give her a thousand yard stare right back.

“—and that’s why Omega’s are particularly interested in Detroit. Since that time and with the introduction of JERICHO, thousands of Omegas are being offered the chance to finally get involved in our communities! So now that we know more about how to treat these coworkers, and where they’re from, why don’t we take a look at what jobs we may encounter them in?” Kevin clicks through images of the most plain faced individuals ever observed in uniforms. A good tactic considering the audience. Traffic conductors, administrators, dispatchers. Omega indicators circle their biceps and emblazon their backs, neon blue, and there’s collective forward movement from the room as officers lean forward in tense interest at the symbols.

Usually most clothing is about concealing the distinctive traits of the Omega— the pulsing blue tattoos that swirl and loop and curl over their skin are considered intimate and kept private. The previous JERICHO reps had worn sleek grey jumpsuits with high collars over black long sleeves. Of course, these new uniforms aren’t revealing in the slightest— Dr. Stern would lose more than one gasket if her people were objectified during her precious O2 movement. The indicators do make their caste pretty blatant though, and that choice is a bit confusing. 

“Isn’t the idea to blend in?” Someone voices. 

“Are they only going to be working at night?”

“Or in space?” There are some laughs now, mocking.

Someone else takes a different approach. “Is this shit supposed to signify that we’re going to bow to ‘megs now?” It’s an aggressive comment, meant to set Kevin and company reeling, meant to do the damage that it does. Snarling whispers echo in distaste.

JERICHO has the tendency to ride some very tall horses, and for a group of Omegas they tend to throw around a bit of weight. It’s no secret that while their leader is cultured and respected, there are others within the faction that have a grossly misinterpreted understanding of what the organization represents. 

Superiority to Alphas, for example.

Blanched white, Kevin stutters over the growling that has started, “W-well no, it’s a-a-actually meant to distinguish Omegas to avoid w-w-w-workplace conflict and encourage co-cohesive behaviour.” He clears his throat and irons his tremble. “Think of it like seeing eye dogs— they wear a special uniform so people know not to try and pet them or play with them. Because even though they are just dogs, they are professionals too! As a result, these uniforms will be issued by JERICHO and the municipality and be worn only while on active duty.” The explanation passes and the group settles.

“Fuck I wish they did this at clubs. You know how easy it’d make it? It’s a nightmare to track Omega’s down by scent now with all those shitty masks,” A rookie breathes to his friend, a touch too loudly for the room full of Alphas, almost definitely on purpose. Hank sighs. The rest of the room snickers.

Kevin gives his own chortle, trying to fit in but sounding tense and uncomfortable. He watches Hank for a bit, maybe thinking he’s been too quiet again, maybe seeing if he views this as another opportunity to undermine the instructor. Hank’s not eager for an encore— the first performance hadn’t been too intentional. He’d wanted to be ignored but Kevin from HR liked to try and do call outs and eventually challenged himself with Hank. So he’d taught him a lesson at the expense of Reed’s dignity. Which was kind of a win-win.

Although Reed getting angry enough to have an excuse to storm out on this crap seems like the real victory.

Kevin soldiers on. He drones on a bit more about politics and JERICHO’s financial influence being a benefit to their department and flips through slides of Dr. Stern shaking hands with look-alike prudes in suits. 

There’s a beep in Hank’s pocket. He checks his phone. There’s a missed phone call from CI who was supposed to check in two days ago. There’s a reminder to cancel his prime membership and for a coupon expiring on milk. There’s also a new email, responsible for the _ding!_. From Fowler, telling him to duck out early for a meeting, opening with ‘I am formally requesting your attendance’. It even has a signature. Which must mean the Captain is charbroiled pissed cause usually he’d just send a text saying _‘office asap’_.

When Hank stands Kevin locks his limbs as though petrified. “G-going s-s-s-somewhere, Lie-lieutenant?”

“If you need to know, I gotta’ see my Captain. That fly with you?”

“Oh,” the Beta gulps in relief. Had he thought Hank would attack him? “O-okay then. P-proceed.” He sounds a bit like a worn out chew toy. Hank cocks a brow, sauntering to the front. There are half a hundred eyes on him, breath held. Waiting to see if he’ll crush Kevin like a spider or whether the man will get wise and skitter off before the first swing. It’d be interesting to know why exactly they assume that of Hank. It’d be interesting to fuel the rumours. 

He strolls right past Kevin with a wave. “My apologies that’ll I’ll be missing the rest of this sh—session.”

To get to the main part of the station Hank has to descend several floors. He decides to take the stairs and prolong what is sure to be an agonizing meeting. He wonders if it could be disciplinary and slows a bit more. He’s not a coward. It’s just whatever he does lately seems to be setting a lit match to Fowler’s inch long fuse. He can’t possibly make things any worse by stalling. 

The homicide department is a neat layout of ‘L’ desks and glass dividers, computer screens locked and idling. Practically empty due to the session, although he does see Reed, scruffy little face absorbed in his phone. His scent is strangely subdued, the Alpha one for basking in self-assurance. Now he smells a bit like he looks. A kicked dog.

The man catches Hank from the corner of his eye and flips him off.

“Yeah, yeah put it away asshole or I’ll break that finger. You should be thanking me.”

“Fuck off Anderson, your mother should be thanking me for last night.” Reed sneers but lets his hand drop nonetheless. Hank takes Tina’s advice about limits and keeps it to himself that his mother had been an Alpha, thus Reed is implying himself to be gay. Gavin Reed isn’t particularly young and actually makes for a decent detective, but he has a tendency to be immature and that means tantrums when he gets flustered. Hank climbs the short stairway to the Captain’s office, ignoring him.

Jeffrey Fowler is an authoritarian. He may not have built the original structure but his office being a raised central room of glass walls, able to survey the floor at his leisure, made the station feel a bit like a hoard with their homicide cases as his priceless collection. Which made the detectives the terrified knights skittering round his fiery breath, loath to wake him. Right now the glass is fogged, but a clear slit opens when Hank knocks. Fowler scowls and waves him in, letting the pane cloud over again. “Anderson, you find a God damn scenic route in your ass somewhere? Cause your head had to be stuck there to take this long.”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt such a stimulating presentation. We’re learning loads up there.” Fowler’s back is rigid straight, surrounded on all sides by screens imposed on other screens, a visual cacophony of flashing lights and status updates. The iBoard here is thin and new and layered with icons of folders, several beeping urgently for follow up over the crest of Detroit Central. The Captain himself is unaffected by the blue glow that bludgeons him, brows drawn into a thickly lined ‘V’— angry is his default mode. He keeps himself clean cut and militaristic. Remnants of army training with a shaved head, neat pressed pants and shirt, plain black tie. Zero-fanfare. Fowler makes up enough presence with his booming voice when he wants attention. 

“Yeah, yeah you’re hilarious. Now shut the Hell up,” Fowler waves to a seat and lays an arm across his desk. “You’re going to sit and you’re going to shut up and you’re going to take what I say without question today Anderson, because I am literally this close,” He holds his thumb and forefinger together, and Hank has to squint to see the gap, “To finding an outlet to to dump on and trust me, you don’t want it to be you.” 

“Jesus Jeffrey, drama much?”

“What did I just say?” Fowler snaps and Hank holds his hands up in surrender, grumbling, “Alright, alright I’m sitting and shutting.” The vein permanently risen on Fowler’s temple throbs visibly.

“We’ll see about that, because apparently I’m running a fucking circus instead of a police department. Now I don’t care that Reed’s a piece of shit, you don’t have to let every dickhead who walks through those doors know it, especially when it’s Human Resources kind of dick. We’d lose half the force if there’s an overhaul. And if they’re going to be looking for assholes to scrap, he’s on the low end of the spectrum. You want a newsflash Anderson? You’re on the top of the list!”

“Oh, fuc—“

“No, shut up, I told you to be quiet. I don’t want to talk about Reed— it just better be over. This whole fucking pissing contest you got going on with the entire God damn department better tuck itself away real quick.”

These sorts of conversations usually start out like this so Hank’s eyes get familiar with the ceiling. He thinks about whether he feels guilty. Gives himself a pass. He does feel slightly pissed that he’s apparently not allowed to make some kind of defence, vent some of that boiling frustration he feels burning through his veins. He’s satisfied at least that the whipped expression Reed had been wearing outside was likely due to being flayed by Fowler’s waning patience. He wonders if Fowler forced him through a submission. 

“You’re going to have to learn to cooperate with having someone you don’t like because, whether we agree or not, that broad Stern is going to get her way. Sooner rather than later.”

Hank breaks silence at that. “Is this what I have to be quiet for, sit here while you just bitch about how I make your life hard? You’re a tough guy Jeffrey, you can take as good as you give right?”

“Don’t start with me, Hank.”

“Give me a reason not to.”

“No, dammit, I am your superior, so do as I say and keep it shut!” Fowler, risen from his chair, pulls himself back in a barely contained fury. Then out of left field, he sighs and sympathy twists into his scowl. “Christ Hank, you really don’t want to get started on this okay, just take the bone for once.”

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?”

Fowler flaps a hand. “Whatever the fuck you want it to. Okay? I don’t got time for this shit right now. I have something else to talk with you about.” Hank squints in confusion, but Fowler avoids his eyes. The Captain’s pokerface is rarely passable being such a volatile man. Even now Hank can see what they’re about to talk about is going to be very, very difficult. He reaches into his desk and draws out a crisp pale folder. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that HR has some kind of ulterior motive, being that it’s the fourth Workplace Accommodation on Omegas we’ve had this year.”

“Rupert’s suicide.”

“I-what?”

“The Omega that ate lead from CSI. We’re all in cause of him. That’s what the precinct is assuming at least.” Fowler’s perplexed look tells Hank he’s wildly outshot his mark. “There’s another reason for us to go through that crap?”

“Of course. Rupert wasn’t from JERICHO, we weren’t asked to rev— never mind. Just no, it has nothing to do with Rupert, although I bet I’ll get a call from the Mayor any hour now about it. This refresher was extremely important, which is why you couldn’t have picked a worse day to prove how badly I lie in your performance review.”

“Back with the compliments I see.”

Jeffrey acquaints himself with his own ceiling now too. He gives Hank an appraising look, likely trying to figure out what to say and how to say it. It must be really horrible for him to choke this much. Something curdles in Hank’s stomach.

“How much do you know about the O2 movement?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having some serious issues getting this chapter to post :(
> 
> Really short, mostly exposition, but finally getting some background on what JERICHO is, so wanted to keep it tight!

There’s simultaneously a lot to unpack with that sentence and nothing at all. Hank shifts uncomfortably, feeling the tight knit of his suit bunch round his shoulders. It’s a strange, unpleasant coincidence that he’d just dozed through several long minutes on the topic of O2. And JERICHO and Amanda Stern. He’s not much for current events these days. He keeps to his business and let’s the world have it’s own. However, JERICHO has the kind of glued-to-your-eyeballs coverage that is hard to ignore. 

JERICHO has struggled from conception. Life has been somewhat cruel to Omegas, their weaker, softer, flighty biology making them easy targets for oppression. While they certainly had some rights before JERICHO, they were severely limited. The right to bear arms being denied for one. The right to education stood out prominently. The worst part however, had been the _Negligence of Heat Clause_ between Alpha and Omega, that, in its barest form, essentially gave the dominant caste the right to rape.

After her near assault, many people were keen to sympathize with newfound celebrity Amanda Stern, desperate to feed their polls, stoke their numbers, swing public favour. Liberalism always looked for the next social-political commodity, and Stern provided the perfect doorway into fresh commercialized activism. 

Only, Stern could play the game smarter than anyone anticipated. Amanda Stern wanted a society where Omegas would feel comfortable and safe. So she’d created one, and with charm, made the government give her all the Omegas to fill it.

In November 2021, with endorsement from Congress and ordained by the Supreme Court of the United States, Article 5.1.60 of Omegan Rights, also known as the Bill of JERICHO, had been passed. It declared that all U.S citizens presented as Omegas, under the age of thirteen, were to be turned over to local State jurisdictions for mandatory processing into specialized government facilities. Any children to present Omegan after the age of ten following that year were similarly expected to register. It was the duty and responsibility of parents of guardians to claim status for their children, barring serious consequences, including extensive fines and jail time. 

Some people resisted.

They came in the night. Dressed in black, thick gear, with faceless dark masks. Black ghosts that made children disappear into the secret buildings of JERICHO. Over the span of eleven days, fifteen million minors were removed from their homes and into this new system. The outcry was deafening. The roar fell on the dead ears of their government.

“It is in the best interest of our people,” President Ovenstraf had rehearsed solemnly to sobbing mothers. Stern had been a statue, but the subtle smile had been unforgettable.

Hank still remembers the commercials. The dark, beautiful face of Stern sweeping up a little girl, cheeks two red roses of joy. Her pigtails danced like a swinging scale. The lioness gripped her tightly, standing in a field of flowers, joined quickly by a swarm of other children. Each one bore the pulsing blue tattoos of an Omega, visible under white shifts. She lead them towards a paradise of a white city. It had looked like Heaven, swollen with cotton candy peach clouds. It might as well have been where Stern took them, for all the contact allowed between offspring and parent.

There are barely any Omegas free of JERICHO’s doctrine in 2038, those left behind either too old to enter in 2021 or immigrants, woefully rare and dreadfully unprotected. He thinks of the young kid who’d just taken his life, having it just that much harder than the ones squirrelled away into a secret utopia.

Hank lets a scowl of confusion wrinkle over his face at the thought of O2. “Well the program’s not going so great, although I guess as per you we can’t shove Rupert’s death on them.” 

“But you’re familiar with what Stern is trying to accomplish?” Fowler’s question comes back quick and sharp, like a mousetrap snap.

Hank nods a couple times. “Well, yeah. She’s finally letting those kids JERICHO snatched back into the real world again.”

“They weren’t ‘snatched’ Anderson. The government agreed with her policy and was part of the enforcement for parents. You’ve got a grasp on the idea at least. JERICHO Omegas are re-entering our society, and the government is working to facilitate the reintegration alongside Stern.” Similar to Kevin’s brush through, it’s a woefully short, sparknotes interpretation of the story.

“But the Omegas have been isolated too long, so it’s failing,” Hank surmises.

“Actually the opposite, though the media loves pandering the sob story. Ours being the exception of course, most Omegas are adapting well to their placements. Particularly in multicaste environments with a mixture of Betas to help with pack bonding. But all that does is make us look even worse in comparison.”

“Okay, thanks for the top up Jeffrey, but tell me how this all gets back to us and me being in this room?”

“They’re trying something different with us. They want us, this precinct specifically, to be one of the faces of the movement. They’re assigning us special placements going forward.” Fowler pauses, lets his eyes sweep over Hank. He can see the metaphorical cock back of the hammer as Fowler sighs out, “They’re going to give us detectives.”

“Oh sweet Mary this is ridiculous, do they not care how many bodies end up at their doorstep as long as they show their commitment to an agenda? This ain’t the crusades we shouldn’t be using people like that anymore!”

“Calm down. They’re not just tossing them at us.”

“Bullshit they aren’t! These are just kids and in case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a fucking Beta cop to babysit them here. You might as well preorder their boxes.”

“Anderson—“

“I sure as Hell hope you didn’t call me in here to be your support man on this Jeffrey, cause you know how I fucking feel about this JERICHO garbage and those asswipes—“

“Anderson they’re giving them to you!”

“What?”

“They asked me who on the force is best suited and I gave them your name.”

Hank’s blood descends in a torrent to his toes, puddling there with his stomach. Then he’s erupting with it, standing, fury geysering though his mouth in an acidic, jumbled mess of stuttered words. Like he’s putting his thoughts through a woodcutter. He towers over the desk, spit flying. “What? N-no, no way, you must be kidding. You’ve got to be—no fucking way—“

“You’re the only one who has zero issues with caste reported, even with all the other crap you contribute—“ Fowler is trying to speak louder, matching Hank scream for shout. He doesn’t rise but his hands comes round to grip armrests as he glares back. Fowler pointedly, but with difficulty, keeps his lips over his fangs. 

“Don’t feed me that after you just reamed me out over Reed!”

“Whenever you’re called in for a case, you are the only one who hasn’t responded negatively, in any shape, to Omegas. You’ve never had an issue with a witness or a victim, or even the rare instance of a perpetrator. None of them have claimed ‘Alpha aggression’. And not a single one of JERICHO’s trials has a record of caste-hate with you.”

“Jesus, so I have a sense of self respect and that makes me qualified to be a leash-holder?”

Fowler gestures firmly, his hands splayed as though holding an invisible box of facts. “The lack of record, combined with your tenure, rank and your age, identifies you as a suitable candidate for their program. Think about it Hank, you haven’t requested time off for a designated cycle in years! Who else would be as ideal?”

“How about literally anyone else here!” Hank shoves away from the table. He’s being eaten by his anger, his fingers trembling. This is worse than discipline. This must be a taste of Hell on Earth. 

For the first time in months, he feels the sharp bite of Alpha enter his saliva, hair standing on end. He can’t focus on Fowler right now. Instead he picks a point on the wall and rages over his shoulder. Arms crossed. Shoulders tight. Feeling strain starting to tear thin threads in his jacket. “These pricks in pantsuits can’t figure their way out of a fucking paper bag and now they want me to be their fall guy for why this isn’t working?“

“They want to start with volunteers from JERICHO who have been fully trained and qualified for the position. They’ll be sending detective _s_ in the future, but you’ll be assigned _a_ partner. Singular, as in just one, who was part of their initial retreat program when it first launched. You’ll be monitored with check-ins while working alongside their personnel. That’s the only thing that changes. Hank, Stern _herself_ is coordinating this. She wants it to succeed.”

“Fat-fucking-chance! I haven’t even had a partner in years Jeffery and you know why that is, so why are you putting me through something like this?”

“Lieutenant, this isn’t an ask. It’s an order. The Omega will be arriving at o-eight-hundred tomorrow morning and you’ll be here, on time, clean, suited and _sober_ , to receive the case that the mayor green-lit for both of you this morning. The assignment is a top-priority. So you can get on board, or you can give me your badge.” 

Turning, Hank faces the Captain fully. He wants to tell Fowler where exactly he can stick his assignment. What the mayor, JERICHO and Stern can do with their program. He wishes he had an excuse that could convince all of them to shackle somebody else with their liability. He watches Fowler shutter himself behind a steel wall of stubborn. 

A chokehold of self-restraint catches words in his throat. Some small, sensible part of him grips his reins tightly, studying Fowler’s face, recognizing that this is a hill he will die on. Fowler, in his dragon’s den of glass, has made up his mind that Hank will dance to this tune with Stern. 

He accepts, unwillingly, that none of the things he says now will get him any of the things he wants later. 

Hank lets his eyes sear disgust into Fowler’s glassy forehead. He knows the man can see the grim acceptance in them too. “You’re really fucking them all over by doing this, Captain.” 

Them. 

JERICHO. 

Omegas.

“You’re dismissed Anderson.”

A beat of quiet stifles the room. A last pause of defiance before Hank shoves past the cheap chairs and flings open the door. 

Gavin is still at his desk, immersed in pixels and colours blitzing across his phone. He starts a smirk, but it slips off quickly at the thundercloud pressure of Hank’s expression. Gavin flinches and ducks his nose into his shoulder, cowed. Fortunately they are still alone, class still running. No early out for the good students after all.

Shift end will technically be in thirteen minutes but Hank rarely lets that run his schedule on a good day, let alone one where he’s tasting a bit of berserk. He fumbles over his desk for his F.I.L.E., knocking over a pen holder, a picture frame, then smacking the top in frustration. He needs to cool down. He needs a beer, maybe a few spills of Black Lamb to slow the boil. He grips the F.I.L.E., thin, nine by thirteen space-grey backed glass, and rips his jacket from the chair as he storms from the bullpen.

The central station is a blend of dentists’ office with twenty-first century Star Trek. There are red brick slices of wall eaten by enormous glass windows, gleaming grey linoleum floor corned by the occasional plastic potted plant. Monitors blink over monitors, fluorescents make strips in the ceiling, and the hall to the front is walled by scrolling maps of Detroit. They have an impressive display behind the long receptionist's’ desk, towering sectionals of white glass overlaying suffused lights, with the emblem and title as obnoxiously sophisticated as one could imagine. Civilians duck out of Hank’s way as he escapes to the parking lot, a whiff of Beta and low-end Alpha spiking the air. His pheromones must be intense. 

The heat of Hank’s car, a 1981 Holden VH Commodore he’d scrubbed into something usable several years ago, scorches his back as he flings his jacket and suit top onto the passenger chair with his F.I.L.E. He grips the wheel and breathes. Big, whopping breaths, drowning in the scent of Alpha as he fights back the feral part of him that wants a lick of blood, a bit of violence, maybe a rough and nasty down’ n’dirty. Hank hasn’t felt this kind of berserk in ages. Not wrestling down perps or across the interrogation room table. Not even when Gavin had leapt at him just hours earlier, snarling in humiliation as Hank sneered, holding back the smaller Alpha easily, Tina coming to the rescue and shoving Gavin outside to cool off. That modicum of self-control that Fowler had been praising earlier, his one useful skill, is struggling to surface.

His sweat makes him stick to the seat, and as the engine turns over Hank can’t help but think of the overall stickiness of the situation that Fowler has glossed over. He puts the car in gear, thinks better of it and switches back to park, whales a bit on the horn with several loud expletives, and lets his head come to thud against the wheel. It’s only when other officers begin to trickle from the building that he has wrangled the beast back, and he ignores the grin of greeting Tina sends his way as he tears out of the parking lot.

Hank heads home, feeling this is the last night he will know a semblance of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is the last time I have to add these notes for this chapter!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed, I promise promise promise more soon, university is really kicking my butt with work. 
> 
> Anyway please feel free to leave a comment and even suggestions for things you would like to see happen! No guarantees since this does have a plot structure but there is flexibility to get in some ideas!
> 
> Please remember that kudos are free <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh what agony to write!! Not much to say other than I hope this is enjoyed, should finally be clear of most of the exposition!

Today is a bright one. Hot, maybe a taste of humid in the smog. Connor is not overtly fond of days where the sun beats the Earth into dry submission, but as the light slits lines over the walls he can’t help but feel a rush of warmth and pleasure. It is not only caused by the swollen ball rising in the sky.

He’s a moving sleeper so he has to detangle legs from sheets as he sits up quickly, spying the slow click of his clock as the minute turns. He taps the screen and disables the alarm. He’s early. 

The room is stark white. Spacious but not in an ostentatious kind of way. He has few belongings to fill it, which is a bit unfortunate considering it is one of the largest in the facility. Even Nines’ quarters are smaller. Amanda has the tendency to spoil Connor in unique ways. 

The mattress is long and wide and stiff. Silk grey sheets offer some shade variety as the bed floats under the windowsill, headboard anchored to the wall. There’s a desk and raised chair to one side and the sleek panels of drawers and a closet on the other. The wall adjacent the bed ends in an enormous floor to ceiling mirror.

The carpet makes a soft pad of cloud grass as he crosses to the attached bathroom. It’s ornate but spare. Water blasts from the vent of the ceiling shower, the scouring kind of hot, and in his good mood, he certainly feels spoiled. 

Connor definitely tries not to feel nervous.

He’s ahead of schedule so he sits primly once cleaned and dressed, waiting for the door to activate. He runs a finger along the blue band pulsing around his right bicep, wishing he could wear a full suit instead of a sports jacket. Amanda’s idea however is to appear more causal, if sophisticated. Connor works his jaw. He could read but he doesn’t want to risk being distracted. Today is too crucial for him to be late. He thumbs his pocket for his coin instead. Lets it swoop it’s silvery dance over his knuckles. Then flicks it over to his other palm. Repeats. Repeats. Repeats.

Eternity is the seventeen minutes to six o’clock as the door hums alive, two blue streaks sparking and rushing to its centre, pooling as a circle of light.

_‘Nightly Lockdown Disabled. Good Morning, RK800.'_

Connor rises eagerly, but he tucks his coin away and takes a moment to slick one unruly strand back from his forehead, buttoning his jacket. Will he be running today? Chasing a perp through trash and smoke and dark? Will he need to draw a gun? Fire it?

Is a holster going to fit under such delicate material?

He breathes out slowly.

Amanda will tell him what he needs to know. He can’t be nervous.

Outside, the hall is as achingly polished and empty as his room. Only it makes sense because it is a hallway, and not a living space, so it it doesn’t look lived in. A high narrow corridor with terrariums suffusing gentle yellow light, punched into the walls; almost taking the edge off the white on white on white of the floor, ceiling and other doors. He feels all his butterflies stir a cyclone in his stomach and he pushes onward, along the long hall to the elevator, nodding to the guard as he slides a finger to the main floor in the directory. The tall armoured man has a clean scent, openly Beta. He still manages to feel intimidating under the flat glass of the face shield. They descend and Connor feels cool metal in his pocket and does not bounce on his feet even though he wants to. 

Amanda doesn’t rise when he meets her in the dining room. She sits, quietly eating while reading, surrounded by hundreds of empty tables. Everyone is still restricted to their rooms. Her skin is deep and lovely against the tablecloth, and she’s clothed in a rush of white wrapping in tight folds to mid-calf. The fabric drapes over her shoulder like a cape, shimmered over with sapphire flakes like stars. Her hair is pulled into her signature bun. Laced of course with the same electric blue as her dress. Severity and posterity is what she exudes. Connor’s cheek twitches in a small smile as she looks up to see him. She once’s over him coolly.

“It looks better on you than I hoped. You did your hair the way I suggested; good,” Amanda compliments. She gestures. “Sit with me Connor. What are you craving this morning?”

Connor knows nothing will fit or stay in his stomach right now with how it somersaults. “I’m not really in the mood for anything, but thank you,” he replies.

That earns a frown. “Sit. Please, Connor.” He slides swiftly into the chair on her left.

“Let me get you something,” Amanda insists. “Harvey, bring Connor here some breakfast. Make sure it has protein.” Her long, manicured hand lingers in the air as she waves. Harvey, an inconspicuous waiter, nods and bows from his stiff position against the wall. He walks briskly inside double gilded doors, barking the order. Amanda fixes Connor with an appraising look. “Are you not feeling well?’’

He swallows. “I’m okay.”

“Are you suffering from anxiety because of today?”

“No, I’m just really not very hungry—“

“You need to eat something Connor.” Amanda stabs a fluff of scrambled egg. Back to her breakfast again. Disinterested. Expecting Connor to agree.

“Of course Amanda.”

“Police work is busy work. You may not have the luxury of breaks. We can’t risk your performance slipping over something as simple as fatigue. I expect you to know better by now.”

“I understand.” She always makes such insightful points. He waits for her to say something else, but she continues to eat in silence. He feels the wingbeats of butterflies kick up as he realizes that he’s disappointed her. He needs to correct that.

Back straight, he leans forward. Posture is important to Amanda. It demonstrates confidence. “I heard that they finalized the officer I will be working with at the precinct yesterday. I read through his file. Multiple recommendations, the youngest lieutenant in Detroit history, no records of conflict with Omegas and no reported cycles in the past year and a half. It seems as though he is an ideal candidate. I’m surprised the DPD was so cooperative and thorough with their assignment.”

Stiffness comes over Amanda and she lowers her fork. “Lieutenant Hank Anderson has a history of accomplishments, yes. However, just because he isn’t notching off his belt with abuse of Omegas doesn’t mean he isn’t an abusive person.” 

“What do you mean?”

“They waited until the last minute to send his information for a reason. I asked Nines’ to investigate further and he managed to find out your ‘partner’ has a less than spotless discipline record. Including a history of alcohol abuse. Untreated, and barely reported.” Every word is soaked in distaste as she wipes spotless fingers with a napkin. Harvey chooses that moment to return, efficiently placing eggs, cheese and fruit before Connor in delicate white china. When Harvey looks to Amanda she waves him away as one does a fly. Instead, she watches Connor pointedly and he brings a large slice of egg white to his mouth quickly but neatly. 

He swallows then asks, “Barely reported?”

“His superior, Fowler, is clearly covering for him. Obviously Fowler has limits given that he has sent the… _Lieutenant_ on forced leave several times for being intoxicated on the job. Or due to a confrontation with another Alpha on the force. None of it however has officially reached Internal Affairs.”

“That’s… unfortunate.” Connor shifts and cuts several more large pieces, forcing each into his mouth. He has to wash it down with water. Everything is lovely. He knows it is delicious. He can only feel it sliding and sticking in his throat though. He might as well be eating dirt.

“An understatement. Still, I hadn’t expected anything less. We’re not wanted in an Alpha environment, and it doesn’t matter how many court orders or laws make it clear they have to cooperate. We were never planning on relying on your partner for success of the program anyway.” 

The true factor would be of Connor, after all. Whether or not he cleared the hurdle, not whether or not the Alphas he worked with held the bar at a fair height. 

“I won’t fail at this Amanda. I’m fully prepared to do whatever is necessary to ensure JERICHO is able to advance and reintegrate as planned. You can have confidence in the fact that I won’t allow the Lieutenant to inflict any harm upon myself or others.”

“You’ll need to focus on making up for his lack of capacity and ensuring that he doesn’t hinder your progress on the case you’re assigned,” Amanda corrects him not-so-subtly. Her hand comes to squeeze his shoulder, and he only now realizes that they are feeling quite heavy. The grip prompts him to face cool black pitch eyes. “Do you understand Connor?”

“Of course.”

“You’ll need to submit additional reporting through Nines’ in light of this information. Twelve hours might interrupt too much of your investigation but twenty-four should be reasonable.”

“Understood, I’ll be as descriptive as possible.” 

“You’ll be provided with additional suppressants to mitigate any chemical imbalances due to stress as well. That you’re having such a hard time with food so early in proceedings is concerning, but not unexpected. The prescriptions should help with that.”

“Absolutely, I’ll be sure to take them diligently.” 

She returns to her novel then, flying through the words on the screen, but he feels her eyes anyways. Watching him. 

For the next few minutes, Connor doesn’t stop eating. When he gets tot he fruit he devours it methodically. Only four pieces left. Three. Two. Then he’s finished and looking to Amanda. She has what could be the curl of a smile on her lips if they weren’t so tight.

“You really do look quite well today Connor.”

Praise. He’s thrilled, finally, to have earned something of approval from her again. He keeps his expression neutral however. If he smiles it might come across more as a grimace with his stomach being pummelled by papillons and liquifying food. “Thank you Amanda.” 

“Amanda,” A voice parrots, but deeper and slightly raspier. Both of them turn to see Nines. Tall, unmoving, he almost blends into the dining hall in all that white, the black lining of his collars and charcoal of his hair giving him some distinction. “I’ve called for a car. Are we ready?”

“Perfect timing as usual Nines. Connor just finished his breakfast. Make sure he is fully prepped for today, won’t you?”

Connor just about stops himself from whipping back to Amanda, but he turns quickly all the same. “You’re not coming?”

“No, some last minute items have come up in other sectors for me to attend to.” She rises with him as he stands, accepting his hand up. She squeezes firmly before he releases her. “Nines will be your introducer today on my behalf. Besides, you said I can have confidence in your performance Connor. You wouldn’t disappoint me after that.”

“Never.” Connors says firmly. She doesn’t acknowledge him. She’s speaking to Nines almost before Connor can reassure her. 

“I’ll be on ‘Do Not Disturb’ during the meeting with Judge Rockefeller but I’ll check the status updates periodically and have the emergency line ready for anything urgent. You know when to use it.” Amanda steps quickly, Nines keeping pace and Connor just behind. They leave the dining hall and security emerges dutifully as they make for the atrium, four guards falling into the four points of a square around them. Their guns are large and tight to their broad chests. They still seem to be less imposing somehow than Nines, despite being broader under the armour.

“Captain Fowler had some last minute reservations about my shadowing,” Nines informs Amanda. “He still wants a rundown and waivers before I accompany him,” Nines nods over his shoulder to Connor, “Into the field. I’ve already forwarded my previous performance records but there may be a delay before I can begin active monitoring.”

“Of course,” Amanda sighs. “They must be trying to delay proceedings a bit, keep us on lockdown in the station so they can get a view of him before he goes on active duty.” 

“Do you want me to be forceful?”

Amanda flicks through her tablet intently to bring up her schedule. “No, don’t bother. They approved an Omega for the field, so he’ll be in the field. Today.”

“Alone?”

“If they’re insisting on making you a problem, then yes. We’re not going to cave to their demands so they can find some ludicrous excuse to restrict him even more during time on desk duty. Trust them to try to find a way fail the project before we even get to execute.”

Nines is quiet for a moment, long, fast strides almost making the strong horizontal of his shoulders sway. “They declined our request of a body camera.”

“I’m aware of this. Connor is aware of the additional checkpoints you were requesting, so ensure Fowler is aware his stonewalling is just going to mean additional paperwork when Connor files a report to the precinct daily.” They descend the staircase as a perfect, synced unit.

The atrium is deconstructive, gorgeous and startling in all the ways that Connor’s room had been demure. The stairs are unencumbered steps of the same pure white that permeates all of the facility. Giant black marble pillars split and flex like black crocoite, holding up the wide arches of a curving glass ceiling that wraps over them. Cubes of light stall in the air as a giant chandelier tumbles to the fountain in the centre, a series of silver spires that fracture so thin in sections it seems the water stemming from the tips are held up by air. The lights glitter high above them as they cross the wide room.

Connor feels for his coin, counting the lines of blue that coil in Amanda’s hair. He sees Nines glance over his shoulder again, nothing more than a fling of white grey eyes back to Connor and then forward. Trying to be subtle. Connor tilts his head, curious. 

“I have yet to receive confirmation of conduct from Lieutenant Anderson,” Nines points out. 

They stop before the main doors, glass with a lick of obsidian coating, and Amanda doesn’t raise her head. “How am I not surprised?”

“I can have them review it during introduction of terms—“ 

“No,” Amanda disagrees. “It’s a lengthy contract.”

“A summary then—“ Nines suggests.

She holds up a hand, finally detaching from her screen. “Don’t bother. We don’t have time to waste on incompetence. Just make sure we have a signature of liability from the Alpha at some point today, preferably before the man has Connor in a vehicle.”

“…Very well. I’ll have the document over by nine-hundred.”

“Exceptional.” The woman turns to Connor then. Her hand comes again to his shoulder, soft, pushing his stubborn strand away from his face. There’s something almost encouraging about it, which confuses him. Amanda has expectations, not hopes. Praise comes after a job well done, not tried. “Connor,” He straightens to imitate Nines. “Good luck today. It might be just JERICHO observing for now, but soon it will be the world watching you make history. The first Omegan Police Detective.”

Before he can thank her she’s brushing past him, guards transitioning into their eerie migration around her. He stares after until Nines calls his name and he sees his brother halfway through the doors and has to walk quickly after to the car idling outside. 

The sun does end up being quite bright.

\------------------

Hank manages several obstinacies when he reports to Fowler the next morning. He wears his suit jacket, crumpled from the sweat of yesterday, over a dress shirt of blue, burgundy and something not quite teal and washed jeans. His beard and hair is washed in that hobo-just-had-a-bath-way that Tina likes to poke fun at. He double parks in the lot. His F.I.L.E. has a fresh Playboy ‘Hunny’ sticker slapped to its back. He knocked Gavin into his coffee this morning right in front of Fowler’s eyes. He didn’t dampen in the shower after his berserk yesterday so it’s nothing but pure Alpha musk in the room. 

Hank feels Fowler should consider it a miracle he’d taken his warning about a dismissal seriously and shown up. Instead the man grinds his teeth as though whetting them into points to rip out Hank’s throat.

“I thought these guys were supposed to be the stick up the ass type ‘timelies’ you love,” Hank grouses as the clock turns five-past-eight. They’re waiting in a board room, the one reserved for the IA agents that like to give Fowler a shakedown every time his detectives finally manage to hit a live target. He sits to Fowler’s left at the long table. 

“ _They_ aren’t due until eight-fifteen, because they can be counted on to be punctual,” Fowler fires back, not stopping the flight of his fingers across his laptop. He’s busy, almost overwhelmed, as usual. 

They both go quiet. Something invisible, maybe an email, suddenly snaps the dark man’s self control. “For _fucks_ sake Hank, there’s not even a window in here!”

Affront comes over Hank’s face. “Back off Jeffrey, I did everything you asked of me yesterday. What do you want me to do, slap on a Beta mask?”

Fowler glares, mouths a few unspoken words, then smacks his laptop shut before storming from the room. Hank watches him with a cocked brow. It’s a full minute before the Captain returns, flinging something that Hank just barely has time to catch as it whistles to his neck. 

It’s small and green and wafts of pine.

“A car freshener?”

“Put it in your breast pocket. _Now_.”

If he were a more curious, less lethargic man, Hank would have tried to see if Fowler’s infamous vein would finally burst if he tossed the tree back and told him to eat it. He’s almost still angry enough to try it. Instead, he slips it into his jacket pocket with an eye roll. “The poor ‘Meg has to get used to overscents at some point.”

“Shut up. Just, upper lip married to bottom lip, shut.”

A voice of reason shoves Hank into silence. Before he can argue himself out of it, it is broken by the soft click of the door opening.

“Captain Fowler?” A slender pretty Beta girl, eyes tinged with blue liner, announces, “The representatives from JERICHO are here.”

“Thank you, Miri,” Fowler stands quickly, almost rocketing to his feet, buttoning his jacket. Unlike Hank, he’s wearing something sleek and modern. Almost eligible bachelor in solid black with space-grey accents. Hank gets to his feet with less urgency, even as his heart starts to pick up in that fight or flight way he’s not used to. Not anymore.

Miri nods, bobbing long black hair as she opens the door wide. In does not stride Amanda Stern, disruptor and creator of misery for Hank and millions. Instead two men step neatly into the room. 

The scent of the one leading turns both Hank and Fowler to concrete momentarily. Fowler’s lip even twitches as he forces a hand towards the tall man that approaches. Hank’s mouth tastes like metal from the power of the aroma. He recognizes what the man is immediately. His heart goes from jog to marathon mode.

The man is unmistakably handsome. Over six foot, eye level to Hank. Built thickly with muscle but more soccer player than rugby, all chest with a slim waist and strong thighs. Dark hair swept back over a wide, sharply angled forehead and jaw, straight nose, eyes set at identical distance, a grey so light they are almost white. His jacket is starched into clean lines and a high collar. When he opens his mouth, long incisors peek behind his lips. “Captain Fowler I presume?”

“Ah, yes. Captain Jeffrey Fowler, of the Detroit City Police.” Fowler seems to flinch as they grasp hands. And Fowler had the audacity to complain about Hank’s scent.

“Nines Stern, we exchanged over e-mail. I’ll be coordinating items on Amanda’s behalf for JERICHO for the foreseeable future. She apologizes for not being present today.”

The name has Hank doing a double take and he lets it gruff out. “Stern, as in a relative?” 

Plus a first name basis with the lady herself? Had that been in the paperwork he ignored from Fowler? It seems impossible. Ethnicity aside, Stern has never made a fanfare of any family involved in her program. She had even seemed to disown them after making status as an activist. Mother to all Omegas didn’t exactly have the same romance if she had to share her children with aunts, uncles and grandparents.

Nines pumps Fowler’s hand vigorously before moving onto Hank, who tries to keep his grip just as firm. He fails. “Lieutenant Anderson. Yes. She’s mother to both myself and Connor.” Hank’s fingers almost feel swollen after Nines lets go. He gestures behind and Hank is distracted from the tall man as the other, shorter one comes forward. “Connor Stern, JERICHO entry RK800, will be the Omega involved in this project.”

“Good morning Lieutenant. It will be a pleasure working with you.” Connor says. He makes to do the same as Nines, shake hands. Hank waits to be hit with another bludgeon of scent. He’s tasted the air of Omegas before, knows they’re usually flowery and sweet, but not in the sickly way (except during heat or a scare). 

It never comes. He gets a tingling, perturbed feeling, like he’s facing down a ghost. He doesn’t smell _anything_. Hank’s not sure what expression he’s wearing as he takes in the Omega(?). From peripheral the brothers can be mistaken as carbon copies. Dead on they are opposites. Everything that Nines’ wears fiercely, Connor does so softly. High cheekbones, defined but with a curve, a more slender jaw, a lighter brown hair gelled into obedience. His eyes are the kind of coffee brown that makes for a sweet toothed morning. Pale skinned, like ivory. Connor is slender and tall, like a dancer, but he is far from the cute, bunny like Omegan stereotype. He understands why Connor was chosen, besides the familial association.

There’s a point of fixation Hank has to consciously move his eyes away from— a blue ring pulses on Connor’s right temple. A visible Omegan tattoo. Very, very awkward. He is still however, beautiful. And, again, an Omega. Hank realizes this, and he’s reaching out a hand then retracting it just as quick, unsure. The cogs have started to accelerate, lining up and starting to spark life in the darker, drearier corners of his thoughts. Connor. Beautiful and young and an Omega. 

There’s a make-believe voice that sounds suspiciously like himself, and yet like someone else entirely, that whispers. 

_You’re going to be responsible for keeping him alive. Do you remember how to do that?_

All ideas of maintaining a polite ruse take flight, probably landing somewhere far south of the States border. Hank’s acutely aware of how Nines is tracking the movement of his arm out from his side and then across his chest with uncomfortable anger. He’s sure the pheromones in the room spike, and mixing with the freshener smell must make it particularly gagging.

There is a deafening quiet. Fowler steps in hurriedly, grabbing Connor’s rejected fingers with both hands, then dropping them in as much of a rush, nodding his head. “Likewise. Would you like a tour of the facility?” Connor turns slowly to Fowler. It’s an odd movement, where only his head moves, body rigid. 

Before he can answer, Nines is speaking. “No need. Connor has memorized the facility blueprints. In fact, we’d like get the Lieutenant and Connor on the active investigation as soon as possible. Rest assured that Connor has immersed himself in DPD proceedings. Please treat him like one of your seasoned detectives.”

It’s hard to pinpoint how, because Nines has literally zero inflection to his tone. Somehow though, he seems to condescend to the Captain with every spoken line. Fowler’s leadership shines through though as he swallows down his bristling and asks them to take a seat. This time Hank moves to Fowler’s right, across from Nines. Away from Connor.

“Originally, when we were coordinating with Dr. Stern, we wanted to start on something simple, maybe a domestic violence case gone wrong. Textbook homicide.” Fowler shuffles in front of his laptop. “But Dr. Stern felt like that would be operating with training wheels, so to speak. She asked for something tangible. Something that could, if necessary, have media interest.To bolster the O2 project, of course.” Nines nods in agreement. Connor looks on with intrigue. Hank gets suddenly that they’re the only two needing this explanation. “Which is why, Lieutenant, you and Detective…Stern here, will be tackling the Manfred Case. MINI, please broadcast and mirror screens.”

At Fowler’s command the room AI activates, and mirroring begins of the laptop on the iBoard behind him. Sparse text appears with the DPD logo. There’s a beep from Hank’s F.I.L.E. and he sees the attachment sent to him. “This was sent over from missing persons a few days ago. Meet Markus Manfred. Adopted son to Carl Manfred, declared missing since last Thursday.”

“The painter?” Hank interrupts, scrutinizing the picture of a well made man stepping from a limo, obviously Alpha with his shoulders and stature. All contained within a luxury suit. Close-shaved head. His skin is a gorgeous russet, with eyes that glimmer despite the distance. One blue, one green. He couldn’t have been created more perfect than if made by Da Vinci.

“Yes. Carl Manfred, if you’ve been keeping up with entertainment, passed away Monday last week. Due to terminal illness it seems. I say seems because from what we understand about the missing persons report, before he disappeared Markus was demanding to have an autopsy done on Carl, but then just walked out.” Fowler swipes to an image of the elderly artist. Caucasian, hair white and sparse, face peppered and aged with liver spots. There’s fierce structure still there with the age, a face loved by pride. Hank bets it stayed that way right into death. 

“May I ask who filed the report?” Connor pipes up. He sounds confident. Maybe a bit excited. Hank bites his tongue. 

“Carl’s personal aide, Thomas Anthony. He appears to be quite close with the family. Now, as per Thomas, Markus has been known to disappear on… ‘soul-searching’ stints, things to do with small time activism. But Markus was adamant that before Carl be cremated, an autopsy be done. Last Thursday, Carl was cremated, but Markus didn’t attend.”

“He should have shown up. Unless something happened to him,” Connor concluded. Then he jumps several paces. “So Markus wanted an autopsy because he suspected something else killed Carl, refuses to cremate him, disappears, and then when he doesn’t show up to the cremation itself, Thomas suspects foul play.”

“Exactly,” Fowler shakes his head ‘yes’, impressed. “Now, Thomas,” A photo pops up of a more sophisticated James Dean lookalike with a slight smile, clearly a resume photograph. “Is saying that the last known interaction Markus had with any family member, in person, was with Carl Manfred’s biological son, Leo.” The young man that comes up is considerably more snively than any of the previous photos. Leo sneers in a baseball jersey beside his father and Markus, backlit by a stadium. He barely resembles Carl, but barely gets the job done. “There are details about the exchange in the file, but let me get to the reason why this is considered homicide.

“Monday evening, an abandoned van was reported to the city driven off the riverbank. Forensics found several items of concern— traces of drugs being one, and several blood samples being the other. One of them was a match for Markus Manfred.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know long winded and exhausting but now we're on track to solving a case and really digging into those ABO dynamics!
> 
> Also, no you are not crazy if you noticed that Nines' scent kept being mentioned, but no one seemed to state specifically what it was. Hank and Connor will talk about it!
> 
> Also if you notice any spelling/grammar mistakes? Totally okay to tell me. Especially towards the end, I kept moving lines and chopping up sections because it was getting so long winded.
> 
> Please leave a comment <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to those who commented before, for some reason I sometimes don't get a notification past the first few days when additional comments are made and I miss responding immediately!
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know if you find random repeats and posts of text through out, I butcher my writing and move stuff constantly, and in the interest of getting this posted ASAP, did not do as thorough of a read through.

The rest of the briefing involves Fowler glazing over the police report filed by Thomas; Markus’ missing mobile, last location pinned to the Manfred home; and noting a strangely absent account of Leo since his adopted brother vanished. 

Thomas had made a point of letting the police know there was no love lost between Leo and Markus, or Leo and his father. Thomas claimed he hadn’t overheard exactly what was exchanged between Markus and Leo at their father’s passing, but that it had surely been about the autopsy, and the tone had definitely been angry— enough for Leo to take off into the night. 

Since then it seems the biological son is suffering from his own disappearance, not returning calls or stopping by the family estate. Although Leo _did_ show up to give a short eulogy at Carl’s passing, it had hardly been anything more than an empty ‘I’ll miss you Dad’, and he had been there about a blink of a time. Without a warrant for his cellphone or credit card records, it’s impossible to track him down.

It is all dubious behaviour, but too Nancy Drew suspicious for anyone to take at face value. Still, Fowler insists that Leo will be their best lead and either a counterpoint or confirmation to Thomas’ testimony. 

“Obviously, this is an extremely delicate case, and requires thorough investigation before we come to any conclusions. A lot of eyes are going to be on this, and the two of you. We need to make sure we’ve asked the important questions before they do,” Fowler finishes, sending a pointed look Hank’s way. Hank rolls his eyes. No need to remind him that he’s in charge. 

Keeping quiet had been his own way of positively contributing, but he does have some pretty obvious questions. Like if Markus had wanted an autopsy, why the Hell had that bothered Leo? Is it because Markus suspected Leo had killed their father? Smothered him with a pillow, laced his medication? Was there enough love lost to sour into hate, enough to commit patricide? But what would be the point of any of that if the artist had been terminally ill? 

Such questions used to get Hank excited about the puzzle, finding all the pieces and lining them up into a map of intent. He used to be pretty good at it too. The thought of being under the media microscope would have pumped another tap of adrenaline into his veins. But the hunger for the case has been absent for years, and the idea of having a camera dogging his workflow pulses dread through his temples. 

Plus, now he has to contend with a partner.

“So we went from training wheels to full on Evel Knievel, huh?” Hank comments a little snidely in respect of that miserable thought. Fowler turns his face completely to Hank, hiding his expression from the other two. It’s not particularly pleasant, and promises an equally unpleasant response, but Connor interjects.

“I am actually quite skilled at operating a motorcycle, Lieutenant.”

Connor had shut up around his third query to Fowler— about any additional witness accounts—when Hank had bumped into the table forcefully and interrupted him, mumbling a half-assed ‘sorry’ as he perched on his elbow. Nines’ gaze had seared into Hank’s neck. Connor had remained quiet, understanding he was irritating Hank despite not really being all that annoying in the first place. 

His comment now seems to be expectant of some kind of praise or acknowledgement, looking directly at Hank across the table, earnest.

Hank’s lip twitches. “Do I lo—“

Fowler comes to the rescue. “It has more meat than standard Lieutenant, but the Mayor, Commissioner and Stern agree it is best suited to the aims for O2. I’m sure nothing it’s outside of your _exemplary_ capabilities.” Hank gives him a grimace for a grin. Remembering he’s supposed to have his ‘best behaviour’ self behind the controls if he wants to remain on DPD payroll. 

Clearly, it’s Nines that Fowler cares about impressing, with how he’s orientating his every word towards those slightly pointed ears. It follows, as the man is the one who will go slithering back to Stern today, ready to whisper every misdemeanour and mistake the precinct had unwittingly exposed into her keen ears. First impressions paint that he is odd, even though he’s barely emoting anything specific enough to identify as a personality. Well, anything other than that choking scent, which stays at one constant, cloying note. At the moment, Nines seems neither satisfied nor discontent, staring a hole into the Captain’s forehead.

The Omega is a softer imitation. He’s more shifty in a barely discernible way. Blinking more regularly. Having to consciously straighten shoulders every so often, as if he has to remind himself to be proud, unlike Nines, whose shoulders are carved in a tight line. Fowler rarely takes a look over him, whether out of respect, nervousness or disinterest a mystery.

“Now, the spotlight, obviously, is going to be on the first Alpha-Omega partnership on the force, so you’re going to need additional resources. Which is why, Hank,” Fowler stresses his name to get his attention. “Dr. Stern is loaning Nines to us as a support for the O2 program, ensuring we’re on track and successful.”

Nines takes over easily, sliding a tablet from a thin black briefcase. He sends it smoothly over to Hank as he stands. “You’ll have noticed within the terms and conditions of conduct that JERICHO has some pretty stern expectations when it comes to working with our Omegas.” 

“Eh, yeah.” Hank does not point out that he did not notice as he did not read them. Fowler’s files came at close to midnight last night. Somewhat purposefully to keep him from freaking out again he’s sure.

“JERICHO has also updated certain policies in light of the unfortunate terminations imposed upon the last employees assigned to the DPD precinct. Any questions or concerns about these changes can be directed towards myself.”

“Terminations?” Hank drawls, unable to let that slide. 

Those poor souls had been buried, not fired.

Nines brings those cool eyes to bead on him. “While the Omegas officially committed suicide, due to the circumstances in which they took their lives, it is preferred not to refer to them as such. Manslaughter is also, unfortunately, unacceptable.” Nines nods to the tablet. “I need your signature there.” He really doesn’t say it with any kind of snob, but Hank can’t help but read it from the way he towers over him. Especially with that scent.

“And this is?”

“Confirmation that you have read and understood the terms of the program.” 

_Well shit_. Hank scribbles his name, hoping he isn’t signing away his rights as a person or his dog or his house if he so much as looks at the Omega wrong. He’ll have to find time to read that crap. 

“Thank you,” Nines says in a thankless voice. “In case you should forget a clause, Connor will be sure to remind you in the field.”

“Great.” The false enthusiasm is palpable.

“That is, until I join you.”

That _definitely_ hadn’t been the agreement. Hank whips around. “What?”

“Protection of JERICHO Omegas are crucial to the success of the O2 program. Allowing Connor into the field with an unmonitored Alpha—“

“Unmonitored? You’re kidding right? The Hell do you think I’m going to do to him?” Hank realizes he is standing. His crackle of scent is toeing a roar, but he’s still more frustrated than pissed. 

“Anderson—“ Fowler warns. He’s on his feet now too.

They’re not serious. They can’t be serious. His stomach broils and he’s still running hot from yesterday, so it’s easy to slip on that berserk skin. Some responsible anchor chain catches the fury, chains it down. He’d barely contented himself with having to put up with a partner again after all this time. A smaller, weaker, way more vulnerable partner. Now it’s being proven how little they trust him, how little they believe that he’s capable of doing exactly what they want without someone tugging his leash. How much they agree completely with Hank.

There’s no chipping that impenetrable glaze of unfeeling over Nines. “Connor is a valuable resource to the program. Considering the track record of your department, the potential for loss is exceptionally high. JERICHO feels it would be prudent to have an escort to ensure that the partnership is viable.”

Hank scowls. “Okay, let me make one thing clear. I could not want _anything less_ to do with your ‘valuable resource’—“

“That’s enough Lieutenant!” Fowler speaks with authority, and Nines’ eyes narrow a nano inch. Fowler distracts him, “Nines, why don’t we discuss this in my office. Lieutenant, take the Om—Detective Stern, and introduce him to Chen and Miller. They’ll be deferring to you during this case while you run point.” 

During the outburst, Connor had become impossibly still. Hands in lap, back rigid straight to the chair. Almost like a child watching Mommy and Daddy fight. His eyes are trained to his brother’s face, waiting. Most likely, for an order. Alert. Controlled, unlike Hank, who for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, tastes something sour surfacing in his saliva.

When Hank doesn’t move, Fowler grinds out. “Hank!”

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” He waves Fowler off, all but storming from the room. 

God damn prissy mother effing tightwad. Implying that Hank is like every other preconceived lusthead Alpha. Delinquent, volatile, impossible to deal with. Maybe even a bit slow-minded. That he would even _want_ to touch the Omega! Though, he hadn’t exactly done a fantastic job at erasing those preconceptions back there. He’s probably just reassured Nines that he needs to be glued to Connor’s, and subsequently Hank’s, side. Still, he’s too old to be lectured by some upstart with a rod of ice up his ass.

_Well, you know how to correct that._

Stern needs her Omega to be protected. Paperwork and posturing aside, that’s the only reason he’s involved in all this. If he’s really not willing to commit to that, he could give them a little taste of what a protector could do when ‘not under observation’.

 _Make them understand how they’ve made the wrong choice. You know, before someone_ seriously _gets hurt._

The thought comes fast through Hank’s mind and it’s like a lightning bolt of hot fury before he sinks into something subzero cold as he realizes what exactly his subconscious is suggesting. He feels sick boil in his throat, scalding against frozen flesh, and the sensation makes him choke. A growl slips out, and with it, all the rage starts to drain. 

No. No way. He would never, ever be _that_ Alpha. 

For all that he hates this, he couldn’t dream of doing something abhorrent to the kid. Not being the average Omega does not erase how Connor is easily smaller and weaker than an above average Alpha. And just because Hank can’t smell the kid, doesn’t mean that it is vice versa. He’d seen the nose twitching in the stuffy boardroom, brown eyes blinking a couple times. Overpowering with scent, barking a command through his caste, and then finishing with gigantic fists. Or even the skitter of lecherous fingers. The Omega would stand no chance. He loathes that his mind even felt it had the right to so much as glimpse down that path.

He’s halfway down the staircase when he hears the click of shoes behind him and he spins around fiercely, ready to tell whoever it is to stuff off and somehow find another way to the main floor. 

He whirls right into Connor, a few steps above him, looking curiously.

“Hurry up,” Hank snaps, for lack of anything actually valid to complain about. 

Those clicks come faster.

When they get to ‘Homicide’, Hank begrudgingly side-eyes Connor as he steps in beside him, doing a slow scan of the room. It’s almost nine, so the operations are in full swing, and there is chatter and paper swishing and computer humming. Processing here is eternal. A scumbag screeches about his rights as officers wrestle him past, giving off a cocktail of A’ and B’. 

A hive of detectives and detainees. Connor doesn’t seem disappointed, but he doesn’t exactly seem impressed with the department either. Isn’t working as a cop supposed to be a big deal for Omegas? Then he spies the fingers tapping against Connor’s thigh on the opposite side. 

The Omega turns to him, mouth opening. A single lick of fringe curls over his forehead. “Can—“

“Fix your hair for Christ’s sake,” Hank cuts him off, strutting inside. Connor stalls.

Tina is leaning against Hank’s desk, exchanging with Chris Miller, a young, dark-skinned detective with a passion for the law, and as per the gab, taking night classes for it. He has an adorable little toddler, Damian, and a Beta wife, Savanna, so high on the spectrum she’s almost Alpha. Hank knows this from the pairs’ occasional drop ins for lunch dates with Chris. The man is extremely likeable, and Hank is glad that at least Fowler worked on his level when assigning help.

Chris beams as Hank approaches. “Good morning, Lieutenant Anderson.” Hank gives a nod in response, tossing his F.I.L.E.

“The man of the hour. And damn you reek,” Tina’s face scrunches. “Don’t tell me you’re all excited! Heard you’re pairing up with a hot set of legs Anderson.” Hank ignores her, making to sit down as she shoves for his shoulder. She seems to notice Connor approaching in the same moment, and she gets quickly to her feet. “Uh, hello.”

“Good morning. Are you Detective Chen?” Connor doesn’t miss a beat, congenial despite clearly overhearing the faux-pas.

“Yeah, Tina Chen.” 

“I’m Connor Stern, from JERICHO. I am very eager to work with the DPD on this case.” When Connor extends a hand she seems unsure, and shakes it very, very gently. Chris does the same as he introduces himself, but his face is a lot less red. 

Tina is obvious when she tries to sniff Connor, but she explains herself with, “Are you scentless?”

“I’m wearing advanced scent blockers,” Connor motions to the band around his bicep and the neon blue triangle with the JERICHO symbol on his breast pocket. “I also have one beneath my collar as well.”

“What’s the point of that considering the tattoo?” Tina pokes her own temple in gesture. She’s never been much of one for restraint. It’s surprisingly a good cop feature.

“Tina!” Chris hisses. He’s more offended than Connor, who neither frowns nor smiles but maintains a neutral yet friendly tone.

“They’re not intended to hide the fact that I am an Omega. They just ensure that potential colleagues are not distracted by their anatomy because of my scent.” 

“Ahh,” Tina contemplates that for a moment. “You got any more for him?” She thumbs back at Hank.

“Alright, that’s enough, tea party over,” Hank grouses as Chris smacks Tina’s arm. “Miller, Chen, you briefed on this Manfred case?”

“Completely,” Chris nods. “Fowler had us report in extra early this morning. Both Manfred boys missing. Suspected homicide with blood found in a Pontaic. Nothing to go off of other than the care aide’s account.”

Tina cuts in. “But they’re getting close to getting into Markus’ phone, and tech is combing through both of the sons’ social media, trying to find anything that indicates where they might be or who might be involved if this really is a murder. No hits yet. They’re still processing parts of the vehicle as well, although so far there are no pings.”

“Good, then you can be responsible for finding out where that van came from. Go to forensics, gets some specs, and don’t come back until you can tell me where the metal for the God damn bumper was mined from,” Hank demands, satisfied that he at least can get the two of them out of his hair quickly. As much as he can tolerate the idea of working with Tina and Chris, it’s still an enormous nuisance to have to contend with anyone. He puts extra authority into the orders, knowing Connor is watching.

Tina looks like she wants to hang around longer and shoot the shit but Hank quashes that with, “Well, the Hell you standing there for? Get going!” He barely keeps the Alpha out of his voice this time and gets a tart look from the woman as she follows an obedient Chris. Fuck. He really does hate group projects. 

When they’re gone Connor immediately becomes a lingering presence over his shoulder. Hank loosens his collar and ignores him as long as he can before snapping out, “What?”

“What would you like me to assist with, Lieutenant?”

It’s really not something to be mad over. It’s a very logical question. One that somehow stokes every smoulder of aggravation. But he wants to get through this day without getting called into Fowler’s office or violating one of those unknown clauses he stamped his name on. “What exactly can you do?” Hank’s not being insidious, just curious, but it comes across that way.

“I have full purview as a Detective of the Detroit Police.”

“Holy shit,” Hank sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Okay, let’s do this. You have a system profile with us? For the, uh, network?”

“I am fully registered.”  
“Perfect. That desk isn’t being used,” He points to the desk adjacent. Nearly identical but empty. Positioned snug against his own. If possible his voice comes even harsher to hide the surge of something he can’t quite pin down. “So sit down and find something useful in the case for us to go off of. Got it?”

“Got it. Thank you, Lieutenant.” 

Connor goes to log in to the terminal eagerly. But he’s piping up again just as quickly. “You have a lot of interesting photos, Lieutenant.”

“Heh, yeah, sure.” He scoffs. They’re all poorly taken, cropped funny, blurry, scribbled on, including a semi decent line up following a successful bust from vice. From what feels like a century ago instead of a decade. He might hazard it as his favourite picture even if half the people in it were not.

“Depending on the length of this case, I may also be able to accumulate such a collection.”

Hank keeps a pointed silence. Connor allows a beat to pass.

“I also notice that you own some rock band paraphernalia. Do you enjoy listening to music as you work?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Then, “I can tell the department keeps you quite busy by the state of your desk.”

Hank shoots him a scowl of incredulity. 

The desk in question is a goldmine of garbage, sticky notes over old newspaper clippings, yellowed paper about the same age as some of the donut boxes he keeps meaning to take to the recycling. The paraphernalia Connor mentioned are stacks of antique CDs and a couple picks with signatures stuffed into a KOTBD mug. Which is one of several other witless trinket mugs that cluster themselves in empty spaces. Is that a nice way of calling his space a pigsty?

Connor takes the visual cue and turns his head. Something seems to grab his attention that isn’t Hank, blessedly, and he’s immersed in his monitor. Fading away like in the room. Like he really is nothing more than a spectre. 

Hank breathes a metaphorical sigh of relief. Tiredness drapes over him, thick and syrupy, but the adrenaline from arguing with Fowler, the spike of Nines’ entering the room, their almost altercation, swelters beneath his skin. Not disappearing but at least content to simmer beneath a lid of discontented calm.

 _Be careful not to let it boil over_. 

He’s gotten real good at watching the pot though. A general sense of apathy really helps to lengthen the fuse. He takes another glance at Connor, makes sure he is really good and distracted, before switching on his own screen, deliberating between taking another drink of the case, or dipping a toe in what exactly he agreed to for Nines. He hovers over the JERICHO package email for a second then scoffs, loading up the Manfred files. If he has to learn more about why JERICHO is practically a happiness manufacturer he’ll finally eat the lead he’s been praying for since yesterday. Nines had made the point that Connor would remember anything he needed to know, and he’d already signed the damn papers. Plus, actual work takes precedence. As much as everything about this drives Hank up around and back down a long-ass wall, he’s never been disciplined for failure in productivity, and work is a welcome way to divert his tension.

Although Hank knew Carl Manfred purely from the painter being a homegrown success story, rare in Detroit, he doesn’t know much beyond his work being immensely popular with select (read: rich or disenfranchised) factions. An Alpha no less diminished with age, Carl had been a rockstar in the art world. There is no difficulty finding multiple sources about his life online, especially post-grave. Clearly charming with the ladies, hooking up with an Omega groupie, pre-JERICHO, when he’d been around Hank’s age in ’09. Out popped Beta baby Leo in 2010, and Carl had been quick to shower the boy with indulgences, including his own last name. Despite the clear monetary commitment, through interviews Carl explained that he had been estranged from his biological son for many years. Until Leo came to find him at a gala at sixteen, begging him to attend his mother’s funeral.

At some point during those sixteen years however, being denied a family became too much for Carl. He adopted an eight year old Markus in 2017 when the boy submitted his piece, ‘Identity’, to a gentrifying art contest. Carl whisked the orphan away from his slum community in the Bronx to a rolling mansion in Detroit, a regular pauper to prince. Didn’t hurt that charm stuck to Markus like gum, in addition to talent.

That’s about as much as Hank gets about the family. Clearly not famous (or dramatic) enough to keep the cameras fixated on them too long. Though easily all comfortable behind the lens with Markus regularly showing up as the beaming plus one to Hollywood glitters, backstage gatherings, exclusive ceremonies. Some events boast significant donations to charities. Suave, likeable, a philanthropist in the making. 

Leo got used to the spotlight out of necessity, being pulled in a couple times for driving high, destruction of property, a short stint of community service for shooting up publicly. His photo montage is less glamorous, images of police cars, bruises and bagged eyes, but never any hints towards domestic violence, and Carl shows up in the gallery at every hearing, along with Markus. A divided family, but still a unit. Worth noting also that Leo’s DNA is in the system, and there’s zero match to anything found in the vehicle with Markus’ blood.

A grating pop of existence, Connor parrots his thoughts out loud. “Lieutenant? I believe Leo Manfred wasn’t directly involved in any kind of kidnapping as there is no evidence currently linking him to the van.”

“That so?”

“Yes. However, it does not rule out the possibility that Leo was involved in some kind of abduction plot. As per the will and testament of Carl Manfred, he would have received immense assets at the time of Carl’s death. He could have easily funded such a crime.”

“Wonderful.” Hank grunts, uncaring. He realizes his seconds of peace must be coming to an end. 

“I believe the best course of action would be question Thomas directly about the situation, see if we can uncover any new information while we wait for a warrant to the Manfred mansion.”

“Uh huh.” He isn’t bothered for a few minutes before he notices his Omegan shadow is now standing and hovering behind him, expectant. 

“Lieutenant? I really do feel this would be our best starting point.”

It’s kind of funny, in a sad way, that as much as he doesn’t want the responsibility of this case, or Connor, or the O2 project, Hank really also doesn’t want to be told what to do. He still wants to maintain some kind of control while he navigates this cyclone of a crime story turned into a political agenda. So he says to Connor, “I’ll take that into consideration.” 

Typical Alpha posturing, dismissing an Omega. But it is also typical _Hank_. He could be forced to work with someone else, but he wasn’t overhauling his personality for them. Besides, Connor has likely been told what to do most of his life, so it can’t really be that hurtful.

Yet, somehow Connor flips that on its head with:

“I can vet Thomas myself if you feel it would be the most efficient?”

_By himself._

_Alone._

_Without you there._

_Like you wanted._

_Correction; want._

“Jesus, no!” Hank barks. For all JERICHO’s talk about equality, there is no way that’s permissible. In fact, Hank’s entire involvement in this is literally to prevent situations like that happening. Suggesting it is a little manipulative, in fact. “Where the Hell do you get the impression that would be a good idea?”

Rattle Connor does not, though his voice does take on a reasoning lilt. “It seems you are preoccupied with other elements of the case, and have already delegated Detective Chen and Miller to their assignments. Instead of bothering active members of our task force and or wasting your time asking for other tasks, I can speak with Thomas Anthony and potentially generate some new information.”

“Goddammit I didn’t mean good idea as in— you can’t just go off somewhere on your own!” Hank gestures wildly to illustrate ‘somewhere’. “Isn’t that in your list of rules?”

“Actually, if you are referring to _Article 4.9.02_ , if circumstances demand, it does stipulate I am able to work independently with your permission.” 

“Perfect, well you don’t have it.” Hank expects Connor to crumple at that, and he’s rewarded with a disappointed slight lip puckering. Good. It means Connor is going to listen. Or at least, not going to sneak out without him. More than likely though he is going to continue to pester Hank, pecking incessantly until either his resilience or his patience splits. He’s that kind of annoying, Hank can tell. He pinches his nose, then grabs his F.I.L.E. and all but lunges to his feet, turning Connor around; pulling the Omega, who is compliant but tense, along harshly.

“Where are we headed Lieutenant Anderson?”

“It’s not obvious? You wanted to talk to the witness, so we’re gonna’ go talk to the bloody witness. Maybe they’ll be interested in keeping up with your mouth.” Okay, that last part was meant to be internal, but fortunately Connor does not take visible offence. In fact, Hank might catch a trill of joy coming from him instead, pleased at getting his way. It’s too soft to be sure.

They reach the parking lot before Hank realizes touching might be in one of those clauses and he lets go like the kid’s arm is an element set to burn. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“You are allowed to have physical contact with my person Lieutenant, as long as it is not violent or provocative. It is proven to build camaraderie between coworkers.”

“Rrright.”

Now comes the moment where they awkwardly observe Hank’s parking decision. Connor stares at the Holden in a very blatant diagonal across yellow lines. Shame creeps a blush up Hank’s neck. He also realizes he doesn’t know if Connor is actually able to be in a car alone with him. 

“Do I, uh, need to sign you out or anything?” He winces, beating around the bush. Luckily Connor understands.

“I am free to accompany you offsite. I report to Nines through a closed network regularly.” He holds up a thin wrist, strapped with a sleek little interface. “This is not intended to imply anything, but I am also obligated to remind you that there is tracking on my person at all times in case of emergencies.”

 _…Not intended to imply anything my ass._

“Okay, well then don’t just _stand_ there, get in.” Hank ducks inside, grumbling. At Connor’s posture once the Omega is seated, he cracks a window, letting his scent pour out and smog in. “Get on the damn phone with that maid guy, we need to make sure we’re not spinning wheels here.” 

Thomas, as per Connor’s call as they crawl through intersections, is more than happy to speak with them, and even offers to let them into the mansion, unofficially of course. He agrees to meet them within the hour, key in hand, at the Manfred’s. Connor gives the information eagerly while Hank blurts out, “Well, finally, _something_ had to go right this morning.” 

Which sentences Connor back to a tense quiet as he understands he’s part of the list that didn’t. 

His eyes glue to the window, first out of a need to satisfy Hank he’s sure, but once they start on the I-75, it’s pure curiosity. He’s like an indoor cat perched on the sill. Hank tries to ignore him but the blatant awe of the other is difficult to overlook, especially once they start zooming through the city, passing an explosion of advertisements on expansive billboards, inventive abstract sculptures and adventurous architecture. And sure, it’s pretty. The city has certainly invested into the visual affect of grandeur and modernism and even postmodernism, even if the citizens remain just as seedy. People scatter the pavement in clean pressed clothes, though there is the odd scour of a less fortunate sneaking by block patrols. The buildings scratch ashy blue with stark lines, and their windows glitter and flicker yellow sun. Some are polished so clear they almost dissolve into the skyline, bursting occasionally with a neon logo.

There is no visible change to Connor’s expression, since he seems to maintain a polite curiosity about himself that’s also carefully blank. The air around him is charged though, and even without a flower of Omega to intermingle with Hank’s own musky smell, the excitement permeates the air as he tries to subtly track the pass of an enormous blimp. Surprisingly though, he does not try for conversation again, leaving Hank, who refuses to sabotage the silence, to wonder at why Connor finds basic _Detroit_ so damn fascinating.

Lafayette Avenue, the Manfred’s neighbourhood, is suitably named, having all the French posturing of pomp, a solid forty five from the snarl of downtown. The air even tastes expensive. The home is a sprawling splendour, large front entrance windows bedecked by quaint rosy bricks. It’s slightly farmhouse style, given the sharp triangle roofs and white framed apertures, but the stone horseshoe driveway and voluminous green lawns bursting with foliage of oak and pine help to boast a label well above middle class.

When Connor glides from the vehicle, Hank curses himself viciously. “Hold up!”

_Why didn’t you set any ground rules?_

He scrambles after. Almost feels safe leaving the car unlocked, knowing no one is eyeing his antique when there are literal ’39 Teslas to pluck. But this is Detroit. He clicks the doors twice. Connor has paused but thrums with an eagerness to move on. Feet facing the estate, head turned reluctantly back and towards Hank, over his shoulder. Despite his impossibly austere silhouette, his body language is commonly becoming more telling than his face, as if it’s bleeding all the emotion he is trying to trap inside. Hank will need to remember that. “Since you JERICHO folk are so fond of rules, I’ve got a pretty big one for you.”

“Of course Lieutenant. What did you have in mind?”

“I talk, you listen.” 

Connor stares at him, and it’s a long moment as an eyebrow practically creaks into an arch above a brown eye. “It seems like an exceptionally easy rule. Do you mind if I ask for more specifics?” 

There’s perhaps a bit of sass there that is unanticipated.

“Yeah, it is pretty easy,” Hank retorts, sharp. “Look, the only way this is going to work is if I know you’re not gonna’ be doing anything that’s going to result in a clusterfuck of paperwork back at the precinct. So you stay close to me, you follow me, and you stay in my sight and out of my hair. Or you can wait in the car.”

There is no cheek this time, only a protest. Diplomatic. Measured. “Lieutenant, while I understand your concerns, I would like to remind you that—“

“In the car,” Hank says firmly. Then adds, “With the windows down.” Connor is not amused, though Hank is only half joking. He could picture how quickly the kid would wilt under the relentless sun and glass of the dashboard. No response comes. “Do we have an understanding?”

“I… comprehend the directions you are giving me,” Connor gives in hesitantly. He blinks twice, rapidly. Perhaps the only sign of distress he is capable of exuding under that gooder-than-thou veneer. But he doesn’t argue again.

“And that means?” Hank prompts, determined to make the thought stick.

“I’ll follow your lead, Lieutenant.”

“Wonderful. ” He juts his chin with the word, sarcastic, teeth baring “Take notes,” He shoves his F.I.L.E. tight to Connor’s chest. Connor steps back with the force, and then to let him pass. Taking moment to fix his tie but falling in step soon after.

Thomas is already waiting for them, sitting at burnished maple doors. He stands, dusting his jeans and then wiping his hands and giving an awkward wave. “Are you Detective Stern?” He glances to Hank then to Connor. 

“Yes, thank you for agreeing to meet us on such short notice.” Connor moves forward, sending a quick look to Hank with his odd stiff head turn, almost as though checking if it’s okay. Thomas has to look up at him slightly. Almost double takes at the bright little ‘O’ he sees. But he gives a model worthy smile. 

Doesn’t initiate a handshake. 

_Old fashioned? Chauvinist?_

“Not a problem,” Thomas shrugs. “I’m kinda between jobs and all right now, so… lots of time.” He looks at Hank in interest. 

Even with the air out during the ride, the Alpha is still spilling fumes. Hank tries to act naturally, but a decidedly more affable naturally, smile included, “Lieutenant Anderson.” He’s also snubbed a greeting when Thomas just nods in understanding. 

_So maybe just rude. Or a non-conformer._

“We’re both handling Markus’ case,’’ Hank continues. “You said you’re between jobs? I heard you were close to the family. Did you not get anything from the settlement?”

Thomas stuffs hands into pockets. “Technically, yes. But with both the guys MIA right now there’s no one the lawyers can turn their questions on, so everything is frozen.” Thomas sighs forlornly, pain blooming in his face. “Carl was an amazing employer, the best I’ve ever had. Honestly, he was like the cool uncle every kid dreamed of. I doubt I’ll be able to find someone as impressive as him to work for again.”

“I’m sorry for that. Carl left an impressive legacy for Detroit,” Hank offers, tries for empathy with flattery. Thomas gives another sigh. Impossible to tell if he’s convinced, but he’s willing to talk.

“He just seemed like the kind of person who could beat death. Like actually go that distance. I don’t know, it just killed the kid in me to lose him I guess.” The man draws a long breath, clears his throat, digs into his jacket. His hands are well groomed, masculine with hair and smooth, with nails cut trim. Not the usual caretaker hands of brittle nails and cracked skin, Hank notices. He pulls out a keycard. “I suppose we should go inside. I disabled the autoscan function as a precaution, so we’re going to have to get in the old fashioned way.” The old fashioned way is still very much new fashioned to anyone who isn’t a multimillionaire, but Hank can’t exactly point that out to what seems to be a trendoid.

The inside is just as awe rending as the exterior. Connor gives a slow scan in the foyer while Hank can’t contain a high whistle.“Did you have to clean all this?” Everything is saturated maple finish over authentic wood paneling, dizzying patterned tile floors, high ceilings and chandeliers hanging glass like fruit. There’s an ornate cage with birds chirping offset a wrapping staircase spilled with sapphire, black and red paint. Carl might have pursued the abstract, but his tastes had definitely run into an eclectic take on French country. Thomas easily hangs his coat on a post topped by a skull. He grins at them.

“I did have to clean sometimes, but every couple weeks a hired crew would go through and just deep cleanse. I mostly took care of Carl, medication, meals, all that.”

“It’s quite lovely,” Connor compliments with a small smile. It spurs Thomas on.

“It’s incredible! Every time I went through I found something new just tucked away. Carl couldn’t do much to the exterior because of the neighbours, but inside he went ballistic. He used to joke his art was like a parasite, slowly taking over the house. He sometimes just started painting in certain places— that’s how the zigzags got started under the stairs there.” Thomas points eagerly and his gaze focusses on Connor, as though asking him to follow. “Markus found out and finished it. It’s impressive, right?” The white and black jags a stiff series of mountains under the landing, screaming _Beetlejuice_.

Connor diligently waits on his partner to step further inside. Sweet doe eyes rend Hank centre stage, waiting as ordered. Expectant. With such a glassy face, Hank is surprised he somehow feels nervous for a moment, before he shuts it down, steeling himself with a furious barricade. Why should he care what Connor thinks of his abilities? For all the pageantry behind JERICHO, it’s not like Connor has been on an actual case. Like he can actually judge.

_But it doesn't take much to see through your washed up old charade._

This isn’t the time to slip down that old worn road. So Hank forces out with as much nonchalance as he can muster, “You said you locked the house up as a precaution. Is that because of Markus or Leo?”

“That…,” Thomas starts, grin falling.“I thought they recorded everything in the report.”

“Yup, but we’d like to hear it from you again if you don’t mind. Straight from the horse’s mouth and all that.” Routine drives Hank’s tongue. The memory of it is hard, like pulling from a long dried well, but even unpracticed, falling into an interrogation again is like riding a bicycle. 

Thomas offers a tight smile, still _People_ worthy. He scrubs the back of his neck. “Man, where to start. Leo was a rough case. He was the first thing Carl warned me about when I first started.” Connor props the F.I.L.E. diligently in his elbow, trying not to distract Thomas while he starts jotting down their conversation. Thomas’ eyes stray nonetheless. It’s doubtful that the F.I.L.E. is his preoccupation. 

“So Carl hired you?” It grabs the man’s attention again.

“Yeah. I mean, Markus technically hired me, but Carl was the one to give the final okay after we met.”

Hank takes care to make sure his voice is coloured impressed, and not suspicious, as he questions, “And how exactly did you find out that, y’know, the Carl Manfred, was looking for a care aide?” He even throws a crooked smile in.

“I’m a design student, so I take these underground classes for street art. Not well known and very niche crowd, but Markus used to just pop in on these kind of things throughout the city. I know I’m not on this level,” Thomas gestures to their grandiose surroundings, “But whatever Markus saw, he liked, and he kept coming. Trying to feel me out, I figure, after he found out I worked in group homes and stuff. He offered me the job probably around two months later.”

“A two month interview? Doesn’t seem like Markus trusts a lot of people.” 

“He’s just very protective,” Thomas denies, but casually. As if it’s to be expected. “Carl was everything to Markus. Literally his whole life orbited around making sure his father was taken care of, but not like he was passing the buck. Carl kept nagging that he wanted Markus out of the house, living his life. Which is why I was brought on as a live-in, but Markus constantly came home asking me to take the weekend off so they could spend some time together.”

Nodding, Hank wanders. He peers at the two chirping canaries behind gilded wires, water fresh and feeder full. Thomas, or someone else, has clearly been taking care of them. There’s an absence of build up on the floor and tables, indicating that there is still some cleaning being done, whether by the contractors mentioned or the young caretaker himself. Not the most important detail, but it would be a good idea to keep a list of who still has access to the house. “Seems like Markus is a good son. I’m guessing Leo not so much?”

Like foul entering pond water, Thomas’ face sours again. He schools himself quickly though, resigned. “Look, Leo isn’t a horrible person, alright? But he was just difficult to deal with. Markus went on like he owed everything to Carl, but Leo acted like Carl owed everything to _him_.”

“And Leo behaving like that rubbed you the wrong way?” Out before he can pull them back, Hank recognizes there’s a bit of accusation in the words. Insinuation that it’s easy to drag Leo through the muck. That there’s motive to giving his name. 

“Sometimes I’ll admit, Leo did get under my skin.” The hired hand doesn’t react with anger, but a surprising shame, as though frustrated that he couldn’t get along with the other. “Carl was this awesome, sassy but sweet old man, and Leo just could never see it. And he was very vocal about not seeing it. Whenever he came home— if he came home, it was to ask for money. Still Leo would somehow always complain that Carl never paid enough attention to him, kept on just spoiling Markus. If they wanted to go out together, Markus would always have to find some way to entice him. Plus, there was the whole drugs thing with Leo.”

“It must have been difficult to watch.” Hank tries to slip back into sympathy, a bit frustrated that he’d nearly messed up in front of his audience, and again, a lot more frustrated that some unfamiliar sliver of him actually cares. He looks to his charge.

Connor is a perched line of silence scribbling across the blue screen of the F.I.L.E. In his pressed jacket, He actually fits in well with the environment, a touch of blue on his forehead making Connor just the right kind of eccentric beauty. He seems keen on staying out of trouble and appears good so far at following his single order— but that thrum from the precinct and the car and the driveway wraps him in a buzzing cloud. He’s shifted further into the home with how they’ve been talking, crawling slowly towards the den, but never when Hank can spy him actually moving. It’s almost easy to forget he’s there again, he plays a statue so well. All Hank can really smell is Thomas— a dash of anxiety— the faint waft of the birds, and the plastic smell of expensive paint. It sets Hank on edge. He feels like he’s watching a jack in the box, waiting for Connor to surprise him with…something.

Thomas seems appreciative of the consolation. “It was a bit hard. Leo’s drug trips sometimes brought him to the door screaming. Not really violent, just loud in a frightening way. Especially if Markus wasn’t around to take care of him. Carl would have me just call the cops if we couldn’t get Leo to calm down. Overall it just made me want to stick around more though, keep Carl safe.”

“So how did Markus and Leo get along?”

“They didn’t. Markus may have tried to work things out, but Leo pretty much despised him. Things always almost got physical, even when Leo was sober. Especially the more Carl got sick. Dealing with Leo stressed Carl out a ton, and he was flat out banned a few times by Markus,” The man blows a gust of angry air. 

Pretty much lines up with what Hank had found, though the additional details still don’t give an indication as to why exactly Leo has an inexhaustible distaste for his father. Whatever it is most likely accelerated his relationship with substances of the less savoury into a rapid, violent plunge. That’s how most of these stories are written. The question of why is a bit too far across the line of privacy for Hank to delve into yet. He needs to stick with following the thread Thomas has already laid for him. “So Thomas, you told officers the last time you spoke with Markus was right after Carl passed away. He fought with Leo that night right?”

“Yes, that’s right. I— I helped Markus call for a service after Carl passed.” He grows quiet, dialing back the volume as one would for a secret. Afraid to admit the death as real. “He asked for a priest. Carl is—was Catholic.

“And Leo was staying over that weekend?”

“Well, yes, he came the Friday before last, tweaked and begging for a place to crash. Markus wasn’t home, he was in Milan for a convention, but Carl said Leo could stay. It’d been months since we’d seen him, I think it was the worst he’d been after a stint. Riding the rollercoaster.” Thomas swallows thickly. “And Carl said he’d be more stressed not knowing where he was in such a state than having him around.”

“And you said that Markus had only gotten home the Monday morning, after you called him?”

“Yeah—yeah. I called Markus Sunday. He was home in hours.”

“You waited to call Markus that weekend?” Hank keeps pressing, tone lightly inquisitive but eyes scrutinizing. He needs to see how Thomas reacts under pressure. Sometimes it backfires— sometimes witnesses gets confused when things go fast and the details become murkier, like kicking up sand underwater. Sometimes though, the shifting debris lets something buried resurface.

“Yeah, I knew something was wrong Saturday evening. Carl didn’t fight me about his shots. It sounds strange, but he _always_ put up a fuss about taking medication. But I waited to call because I thought I was just being paranoid. But Sunday Carl was worse. He couldn’t even… he wouldn’t respond. It was such a whiplash from Friday…” The Beta’s throat keeps bobbing, like he’s trying to force some clog from his throat. There’s grief swelling from him now. “I’m—I’m sorry, do you mind if we sit down inside?”

“Of course,” The Alpha immediately gestures for Thomas to lead the way. The man has yet to refuse a question. Does not seem afraid of the police. Positive signs. Despite all the turmoil that surrounds him, he’s clearly convinced that he has nothing worth hiding. Which means he’s more than likely reliable. For Hank, he’s not sure if that’s good enough. He feels a need to keep pushing, while a loud voice tells him to be careful about scaring Thomas away. Kitten gloves on for witnesses.

They’ve barely made it a step then before—

“Actually, do you mind if I look around while you speak to my partner?” 

There it is. The breech in monotonous restraint that Hank has been waiting for.

Connor, a distinct presence of nothing, startles both of them with the question. When they both blink at him, Connor turns more towards the Beta. His face transforms subtly, but just enough, into something earnest, shy, and charming. Eyebrows raised. Mouth toeing a smile. “I would just like to see if I can uncover anything that will help us locate Markus, maybe indication of a struggle or an address that Markus last visited.” 

Surprise easily slips into wide lips and teeth, a touch coy, on Thomas’ face. “Ah, of course, Detective Stern.”

“Thank you,” Connor says genuinely, and finally turns to Hank.

Hank wears a distinctly less pleasant expression. But as seems to be the trend, Hank’s picking up, Connor is unstirred and reacts in his level manner. “Would that be alright, Lieutenant?”

_What’s the point of asking that now?_

To add water to frying oil, Hank would figure, with how his mood spikes, though he quickly slaps a palm to his neck, pretending to scratch as he covers a gland. Stanching the scent as well as he can. He’s tempted to say no, just out of spite, screw how their witness would react. Connor is practically daring him to do so. But he can’t think of a believable reason to say no. “Knock yourself out,” he bites out instead, taking seconds to exchange a stare that promises something to come later. 

As Connor climbs the staircase, Thomas calls, “If you want to get started in Markus’ room, it’s the second on the left upstairs.” He receives a thanks that has him bubbling with a gooey, uncomfortable air of fondness. He’s keen on the Omega, that much is obvious. It’s why Connor had bothered to ask under Hank’s nose. 

A throat clearing has Thomas back on track and he almost goes to grab Hank in his zeal to please.

The den carries no less flash than the taste received in the foyer. There are a million books here, from comics to _Homer_. More birds. Canvasses brilliantly layered in colour. Some Venetian furniture pieces basking in the bay window. A crappy grey lounge chair stained with a white skull and crossbones. Hank wonders if maybe Carl bought the house prefurnished and then just stuffed his own belongings in the empty spaces. They rest on crisp red leather chesterfields and he picks a seat facing across from the huge structure of a giraffe. It reaches the railed balcony of the second floor. He glimpses movement there, sees the pant leg of Connor, and squashes something queasy when the kid disappears out of sight.

He told Connor the rule for a reason. It’s taking considerable effort to stay seated. To not just drag the stupid little whelp into the seat beside him. Hank’s overshadowed by a large silky leaves that prompt him to lean forward on his knees, annoyed as he realizes Connor took his F.I.L.E. on his little field trip. He turns the recorder on for his cell, explaining to the caregiver.

“Sorry for all the questions, Thomas.” Using the witnesses name is a good tactic, Hank remembers. Encourages familiarity. “I’m just trying to get a clear timeline of what happened so we can better figure out what happened to Markus.” 

_And Leo._

Although Hank doubts Thomas would appreciate that fact.

“It’s alright. I understand.” So polite, but not in the stiff way that Connor impresses. Gentle and breezy. Incapable of controlling his emotions, if his blatant sweet on for the Omega is anything to go by. “It’s still fresh is all. And talking about that night isn’t easy. I almost thought that I had something to do with it. Markus was… destroyed, losing Carl.”

He supposes the man has a point on how draining the whole process is. It helps to dredge together a bit more rapport, enough to maybe get him through the last of the interview. “I’m going to get you to run through that night again for me, alright? Don’t leave anything out. Even if it seems unimportant.”

So Thomas does. 

10:34 P.M. Friday : Carl had been doing well, then _knock knock_ Leo comes to stay. Barely interacting with anyone, passing out in a guest bedroom. Carl is worried but hopeful, and does not complain of pain. Does not complain about anything.

09:21 A.M. Saturday : Carl wakes sluggishly, hardly eats, wants to sleep. Takes everything easy without question. Leo finally returns to awareness that evening, but only to pick at a sandwich. He visits Carl’s room for a minute. Thomas there, watching. Carl slips back under that night.

08:54 A.M. Sunday : Carl won’t open his eyes, still breathing. Thomas calls Markus first, then their doctor. Then 911. Markus comes like a bat out of Hell, though considerably delayed by the inconvenience of last minute flight hopping back to Detroit. He is a storm on the phone. Thomas tells him to meet them at the hospital. Markus does not care about Leo being there. He only asks for his father.

06:46 A.M. Monday : Carl is nearly as cold as his soon to be tomb, rasping a few last breaths into the early part of the night. Markus arrives. Both Manfred boys keep vigilance during those hours, quiet, somehow appreciating each other’s company in silence. Maybe for the first time. Maybe the only time. 

At 08:51 P.M. that same night, both boys are left fatherless. 

Near to almost midnight, while Thomas steps out to call for a service, there is an explosion of noise from inside the room. 

“A huge row. I didn’t want to interrupt, and I was a bit distracted by the phone, but basically Markus really wanted to figure out why Carl passed away so suddenly, but Leo felt that Markus was obsessive and stupid, that he couldn’t let Carl go.” Thomas makes a disgusted expression then. “He… went so far as to insinuate that Markus… basically that Markus couldn’t get enough of sucking up to Carl. So Markus hit him. Once. Only once.”

“Because of Leo implying that he was a brownnoser?”

There’s a twisted face again. “What Leo said to Markus was disgusting. He said… he said he couldn’t get enough of…ugh, excuse me, sucking Carl’s dick. So Markus let him have it. It was enough to scare Leo, so he took off.” 

There’s discomfort and wandering eyes at that, and Hank can’t help but narrow his own and let some Alpha come into his tone. “From one hit? Leo seems a bit too scrappy to leave his dead father over a bit of a winding.”

It does the trick. Thomas blurts, “He broke Leo’s nose with that punch. Markus is a big guy, and an Alpha, so when Leo said that, he could’t control himself. He wasn’t in his right state. He didn’t mean it, but he did it.”

“The broken nose wasn’t in the police report.” Hank points out, trying not to growl in annoyance. Thomas at least has the decency to seem ashamed.

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s just, I was sure if I said anything about Markus being violent, they wouldn’t want to look seriously. They might have thought he was just working off a berserk. But Markus doesn’t have ‘berserk’ in him. And he would have never missed Carl’s funeral. Please trust me on that.”

A bit weak after admitting to obstructing a police report. Maybe Thomas isn’t so on his sleeve as presumed. “Do you know if Leo got medical attention for that?”

“No, he bolted. I’m guessing the drugs still being in his system had him scared to stay in the hospital.”

Hank thinks. “Was his nose set at the funeral?”

Short pause. “Come to think of it, yes. He was bruised, but not horribly. But it definitely wouldn’t have been done there or they would have held him, right? Anyway, Markus sent me home pretty much immediately after I told him the priest was on his way.”

 _But he would have had to have medical care_ somewhere _after that time to show up decent on Thursday._

“And this funeral was organized by a service right?” 

“Yeah, the priest I called handled was from a service that handles everything regarding last rites. Carl had it all outlined in his will.”

“And Markus wanted to overturn that to have the autopsy.”

“Yes.”

Mulling over all the information, Hank scratches at his beard. He feels Thomas try to pick something out of his expression with nervous eyes. He still doesn’t give off the air of someone deliberately dishonest. He’s not purposely slimy, and there’s a clear reason to not want to soil Markus’ reputation by describing a less innocent version of events. A good berserk could take weeks to work out of the body and the Detroit system is busy enough without having to track down somebody punching or grinding off steam. 

“Detective Anderson, I don’t care if I get in trouble for not telling about Markus hurting Leo. I just want the police to find him,” Thomas pleads, but with determination. 

Hank lays it down for him. “Listen kid, I personally don’t give a sh—damn about that kind of thing, but if you lie like that again, you’re seriously jeopardizing the chances of this all going smoothly. So you’re going to need to be completely honest with me, or this whole thing is going to get shuffled off my plate and into cold case pretty quick.” It’s a touch more combative than he should be, but Hank is tired, and it’s been over an hour of questions, and he’s awake and it’s not even noon yet. Plus, he hasn’t so much as glimpsed a squeak of Connor in the past fifteen minutes. He just wants to wrap up now and grab the Omega and for fucking sure he’s tying him to the steering wheel outside next time. 

But he barely has a lead to tug on, so he’ll have to press through a few more questions. Thomas nods his head eagerly. Hank speeds him through the paces, the long list of Markus’ friends and girlfriends given to ‘Missing Persons’ coming up short on one altruistic heterochromatic Alpha, the much smaller list of not-so-friendlies (Leo, basically) bearing the same results. Thomas seems incapable of fathoming anyone else wishing harm on Markus. No idea why he might have been in any kind of van or that slummy area of Detroit. Hank pushes the man to speculate, which only runs them in long circles for the next few minutes. Effort reserves quickly dwindle. 

It doesn’t help that Hank feels himself winding tight and stiff knowing that every second spent now is a second where he can’t see what’s going on with Connor. There’s nothing happening to him. He knows this. Yet it still burrows into his skull like a tick and his eyes can’t help but keep flicking up every time Thomas scrunches his perfect face away to think. Connor does not appear again on the veranda. Finally, they’ve made a loop of the mental track for about the eighth time and Hank decides that he’s squeezed the caregiver’s brain dry. Either Markus is truly a saint with a single momentary lapse, or he’d kept his demons shuttered away from Thomas. He asks for a tour of the home. 

Every room is beautiful and wonderful and in such an arranged disarray that Hank knows it will take a full team to actually discover something useful, though he does an eye scrub through each. It’s a little hard to keep from ripping through them all and just finally placing Connor in his sights. He forces himself slow and takes special care in Markus’ room, which is considerably more tame than any of the others in a brightly lit snapshot of ultimate feng shui. 

Though generous like his father, Markus has less fantastical tastes. The largest item here is a bed, tightly made, and a drafting board with neat sketches. Small potted plants tuck everywhere. Thomas trails behind and Hank handles everything he picks up carefully. There are no family pictures in the adopted sons space, no laptop or tablet, though Hank knows those were turned over to CSU. There’s no notepad with the imprint of a scribbled address or loose floorboard to peek into. He moves on.

Leo had only a temporary space, though always the same, a plush guest room that has a barely perceptible reek of carcinogen. Hank checks the large windows, finding them unlocked. They lead out to a drop that would be difficult, but not impossible, to scale, several feet from a clean gutter running to the grass. 

“Did Leo ever sneak out when he stayed?”

“I don’t know that he could. The alarm system activates at tampering of the window frame. I had it disabled just while you’re looking around, but Leo would have had to know the code.”

Leo strikes Hank as the sneaky kind to find something like that out, but he keeps it to himself. He cracks his knees to duck under the guest bed, surprisingly finding no stash between the frame or behind the headboard. His hands come away dusted red from the slats however, and it takes less than a flash for him to put it together.

 _Red ice_. 

“I’ve been through this room and every other within the house, Lieutenant.” Hank tenses at the sound of Connor, and can’t help a little slight of sarcasm. 

“Well isn’t that fantastic.” Over his shoulder, Connor is in the doorway. Completely fine. Of course. He hadn’t been worried. “You want to share with the class?”

“We should return to the precinct and confirm if Detective Chen and Miller have come up with additional information for us,” Connor avoids. If he’s found anything, his mask keeps it on lockdown. Something hot spikes through Hank. He’s on his feet and trying to manufacture something civil to Thomas as he strides quickly to the Omega, giving him a very physical leash in a hand around his wrist.

“Thanks for the help today Thomas. We’ll keep in touch, alright?” The Beta follows them, waving off the appreciation, eyes gravitating noticeably to where Hank is manhandling Connor down the stairs with another hand against his back. 

“Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Keep your phone nearby, alright? Our department will be looking to search the place in the next few days, it’d be great to have easy access.” 

This go around, Hank doesn’t release Connor until he’s all but shoving him inside the car. He very nearly buckles the belt around his tiny waist. By the time he rounds to the drivers side, he’s puffing and licking over his canines. Wisely, Connor has kept quiet. Hank tries to string together a series of vowels and consonants that can sound as words over hissing growls. People say they see red when they are angry. But ire pushes Hank’s vision into a blinding kind of white, the same blanch as his knuckles as they strain over the wheel.

“What the Hell did I say?” He surprises himself with how measured he sounds. But it doesn’t last as he rips straight through Connor’s opening mouth with a noisy start of the car, repeating louder, “What the Hell did I say? Huh? You wanna tell me what exactly you misunderstood?” He blazes onto the road in smooth motion.

“You appeared to have the interview under control Lieutenant. I thought we could cover more ground separately.” Connor barely finishes before Hank’s launching into the next lash of his tongue. Anger is ravenous, eating up his patience instantly, and hungry enough to want to devour whatever calm seems to perpetually flow through Connor.

“Do you think that I’m stupid? Do I look stupid to you, is that it? This isn’t about fuck—this isn’t about fucking handling the witness or being efficient. You disobeyed a direct order.”

“I thought—“

“Ah ah ah, you thought nothing, you don’t get to think, you don’t get to talk, you’re supposed to listen, because that’s what I fucking told you!” Hank steps off the gas, realizing he’s racing as they screech onto the freeway.

“I understand that you’re upset Lieutenant—“

He laughs sourly. “That’s the wrong fucking word for pissed!”

“—but our goal is to find Markus Manfred as quickly as possible, and as I’ve explained I am qualified to—“

“You’re qualified for shit,” The Alpha snaps. He sees something that is a clue that things might plunge a lot more south. The sharp turn of Connor’s head, a pulse of red blinking on his temple. “You’ve never done this before. How the Hell could you know anything about running an investigation? You’ve been stuck inside that quaint little facility your whole God damn life.”

“That’s incorrect. We’ve run extensive simulations and I’ve consulted before for training,” Connor starts, only for Hank to savagely twist his words.

“Oh yeah? Well tell me this, any of those simulations tell you about how often a criminal returns to the scene? What would you have done if a perp had been hiding on the second floor, ready to pop off our witness, then found an Omega instead? Huh? Tell me, you got a gun hiding in that jacket of yours? Because I sure as fuck didn’t give you one.”

“I am actually skilled in several forms of combat, including eskrima, that would have helped me to disarm—”

“Oh c’mon, you’re seriously suggesting Batmanning a fire arm? Don’t give me that crap.” Hank may have slowed the Holden, but he steamrolls right over Connor. “You’re supposed to do as I say. I’m the one with experience. I’m the superior officer. I’m the A—look, you’re the one who’s one trial here alright! And I don’t give a shit if you mess it up for yourself, but I already told you I don’t want to deal with the backlash.” 

He’s looking for a fight. But he can tempt this barracuda all he wants, Connor does not take the bait. The kid is flustered, but in an honest attempt to appease the beast that is taking Hank’s brain by the reins. “My primary objective here Lieutenant, beyond resolving the case, is to ensure that we are successful for the O2 movement. I would never want to jeopardize that mission by willfully causing you emotional distress that could interfere with success.”

Hank squints at him. “Well, guess I should make sure not to let my ‘emotions’ get in the way of your precious fucking mission.”

“I meant that as a genuine apology.”

“I didn’t hear a fucking sorry in there.”

“I’m sorry.” Hank almost thinks he’s quipping it at him with the enthusiastic tone, even though it’s just an earnest face that greets him. No hint of maliciousness in those sweet penny brown eyes. And that overall just makes him feel exhausted. He’s not getting the release he needs from this argument. It’s like screaming at a rock face. Albeit a pretty, smiley one. He's also a little scared that if he keeps going he might have to admit something to himself that he doesn’t want to be quite true and something that he doesn’t want Connor to know.

“Yeah you know what, just go ahead and shut up now.”

Connor does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy to post!!! Hopefully people are able to enjoy it since i know it's a lot more case heavy than relationship heavy right now. If you're feeling that way please let me know so I can work on shifting gears a bit more for future chapters!

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I love comments and for this chapter in particular, ANY pointers would be lovely on how comprehensive the situation is with JERICHO, Amanda and the DPD. It will be elaborated on in further chapters, but I want to make sure that so far it is somewhat clear!


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